Solitude's Strain
by TaraF
Summary: Against all expectations Fenris' mind is recovering from the lyrium poisoning his unstable markings have caused, but the road to recovery is not without obstacles. Can he fully reclaim the freedom he lost? And can Hawke bring himself to let Fenris go if he needs to? Both Fenris and Hawke need to find their place in the world, but will it be at each other's side or apart?
1. Chapter 1

**When I wrote the last chapter for Lyrium's Hold I honestly thought it would be the end of Fenris' and Hawke's tale. Then a certain someone decided to start prodding me for a sequel, because surely our dear Fenris deserved better than the state I left him in? She kept throwing ideas at me in hopes of sparking inspiration. And some stuck. More popped up. And here we are. Another story, on Fenris' recovery. So many, many thanks are in order for my friend renfrees on the BSN (lethian on ) for all the brainstorming she has been doing with me over the past few months(!) and the valuable feedback. Without her this story would never have seen the light of day. **

**Because Fenris deserves better.**

* * *

It was still early when Damian Hawke awoke. Waiting for his heart to stop fluttering in his chest and his breathing to slow, he opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. A cool draft found its way through a crack in one of the walls of the hut and caressed his face. He inhaled the air through his nose and let it escape through his mouth. The lingering impression of the nightmare, its prints still sharp in his mind, slowly began to fade.

_It was just a dream,_ he told himself. _Nothing more._

He was no stranger to bad dreams; they plagued him regularly. Damian was unsure whether it was simply due to everything he had gone through being fuel for demons and spirits alike to give shape to the Fade around them, or that it was a consequence of having turned to blood magic - even if he had refrained from practicing it for over a year now. Underneath the fur blanket he brushed the web of scars covering the inside of his lower left arm. Reminders of darker times. Normally he would not consider their presence comforting, but now they ensured him he had woken up and the scene echoing in his head was not a real memory. He opened and closed his left hand as much as possible, feeling the poorly healed joints and scar tissue resist the movement. It had been quite some time since a nightmare had shaken him like this. Normally the relief upon awakening was enough to shrug it off but this one had been particularly disturbing. Taking a real event and completely warping how it had played out... The scene had been so vivid he could easily replay it in his head. Fenris' sister speaking but refusing to even look in their direction. Danarius descending from the stairs in the Hanged Man, smile on his face, triumph in his voice.

_"If you want him, he's yours."_

That was not what had happened, was not what Damian had said. He had stood by Fenris' side, defended him. And yet those were the words that had come over his lips in the dream. Fenris' shock, expressed with a single _"what?!"_, followed by a plea. _"Don't do this. I can't fight him without you."_

Danarius' amusement, a promise of recompense.

_"You're on your own, Fenris."_

It would all have been bearable if Fenris had fought. The dream should have culminated into a battle, with everyone getting a taste of the warrior's blade, of his ghostly fingers in their chests. Damian would have been happy if this disturbing dream version of himself had paid with his life for his betrayal. Instead he had watched Fenris' resolve crumble. The nightmare had taken Fenris' eyes and made all hope die in them in an instant, had shown his shoulders slump and his head hang in defeat. And he had followed Danarius out of the Hanged Man, out of Hawke's view. Crushed back into obedience, no will of his own left.

_"Thank you, Master."_

Damian turned on his side and watched the outline of Fenris - half curled up into himself as a protective ball under the blanket - in the bed on the other side of the small room. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat at the memory of those three words which continued to haunt him. He had become intimately acquainted with the submissive side which had been drilled into the ex-slave, but that was not by choice. The lyrium from the unstable markings had poisoned Fenris' mind and forced a state of dementia onto him, making the elf fall back into the role Danarius had shaped him for. The thought that Fenris could also have reverted to hollow obedience by choice - or a choice made by Hawke - was not something Damian wanted to consider. Fenris, the real Fenris, was someone who fought till the bitter end. Damian did not want to believe otherwise. Even now Fenris was fighting, combating the damage the lyrium had done. It should have been irreversible. Irreparable. But more than a year ago, after months of no progress whatsoever, he had experienced a moment of lucidity, his identity briefly reclaimed. It had not lasted long but it had been there. And more had followed.

Improvement. Or at least it appeared that way. There was no predicting how this trend would continue, how much Fenris would recover. Damian had learned to take it one day at a time and not give the future much thought. He would take care of Fenris as long as necessary. Worrying about what would happen, how things would change if Fenris' mind got a proper, permanent foothold in sanity would do him no good. No false hope, no expectations and no fears. Surprisingly, it had become almost easy. Sometimes he wondered whether it should, or that it was wrong to have grown accustomed to seeing Fenris this way. Should he be wishing harder for a full recovery? Look forward to the day he was no longer needed in Fenris' life, even in a role as wrong and twisted as his current one? What would he do when the day came that Fenris permanently remembered every reason to walk away? He had no answers, nor did he wish to find them. Perhaps that was an answer in itself.

The last remnants of the nightmare began to dissolve, becoming harmless in the face of reality. And yet... Damian stared at the mess of white hair on the pillow. His dream had rubbed in how inevitable it had been. Either Fenris had returned with Danarius as a slave, or the magister's death had made the markings become unstable, resulting in the release of lyrium in Fenris' body and damage to his mind. Damian had fought with everything he had to save Fenris from that and worse, but there was nothing more he could do to help.

He pushed himself up and suppressed a shiver. There was no fire in this room and thus the nights tended to be cold. He had not heard the rooster yet, but the first birds started chirping in their trees so it could not take much longer. He might as well get up. Deciding not to wake Fenris yet, he quietly got dressed. On bad days it tended to upset the elf to discover he had overslept, but Damian had gotten better at handling most of the panicked outbursts. An incident like when Fenris had knocked him unconscious with a book and taken off had not occurred again.

Damian was preparing breakfast when Fenris shuffled into the kitchen and living area of their small hut. He kept his head bent and looked like he expected to be beaten or at least reprimanded. His hunched shoulders made him look even narrower than he was. Although he was no longer as frail as when he had awoken from the coma the markings had caused, he had yet to reclaim the frame of a warrior - if he ever would. His hair had not touched a comb yet this morning, and what little could be seen of his face was still crinkled with sleep. Damian offered him a friendly smile. "Morning. Did you sleep well?"

Fenris stiffened and hunched a little more. Apparently he interpreted the innocent question as mockery of the fact he had stayed in bed longer than Hawke. "Apologies, Master. I didn't mean to- it won't happen again."

Damian ensured the smile remained on his face but could not stop it from leaving his eyes. Even after all this time, Fenris' ability to perceive friendly remarks as criticism or worse could still catch him off guard. "It's no problem, Fenris. Don't worry about it. Just go freshen up. Breakfast is almost done." He gestured at the bathroom door. "Water should still be reasonably warm."

Fenris nodded, muttered a quiet "Yes, Master" and disappeared in the tiny space they used for washing while Damian returned his attention to the eggs he was baking. He ran a hand through his hair, then tied the upper half together to keep it out of his face. Fenris appeared to be reasonably calm this morning. A good sign. Although the elf's mood swings could be unpredictable, they tended to be worse if the day started off badly.

Ten minutes later they sat down to have breakfast - eggs, some bread, along with milk and cheese traded with the farmers living in the village not far from their quiet home – and make plans for the day. Or rather, Hawke talked about the work he intended to do around the hut while Fenris nodded in confirmation at everything and gave short answers to whatever he was being asked. Damian had long since started to feel like he was talking to himself instead of having a conversation when he did so but he kept it up nonetheless. "Looks like the weather will be nice today," he remarked while trying to make a piece of egg stay on his slice of bread. "You can tell spring's almost here. I'm looking forward to it. Although the winters aren't so bad here as they could be in Ferelden or Kirkwall. I think it might be because of the wind. Especially in Kirkwall there could be such a cold wind coming from the ocean. We're so much farther inland now." He took a bite and chewed on it thoughtfully. "We'll probably need more wood for the fire to last till the warmer months, though. I'll chop some today. Even magical fire likes something to burn on to last. Were you cold tonight?"

Fenris shook his head, quickly swallowing his small bite to clear his mouth. "No, Master."

Damian interrupted his eating for a moment. "You don't need to refer to me as master," he corrected patiently. He had lost count of how many times he had said these exact words long ago and the effect never lasted. Yet he could not bring himself to ignore it. "You can call me Hawke. Or Damian, but you only do that when you- you never do that anyway. So Hawke is fine. Or 'hey you!' can work too. I discovered I've started listening to that too in Kirkwall." He offered a half-smile to encourage Fenris to laugh at his joke but as expected the white-haired elf remained serious. Apparently having a sense of humor was one of the many things not permitted for slaves.

"Yes, Hawke."

No panicking about being sold or kicked out. Another good sign. Damian cleaned his plate with his last chunk of bread. "Good. I'll go do the dishes. Do you want to feed the chickens? Maybe we can go fishing in the afternoon. If we're lucky we can get some to bite."

It was indeed a beautiful day. A shy, watery sun decided to test her warmth after the shortest winter days and successfully melted the night's cold away. Despite regular breaks Damian felt his body heat up and becoming sweaty from the woodchopping. Every now and then he checked up on how Fenris was doing, as the elf tended to grow restless if he saw Hawke laboring for prolonged periods of time. When he was being begged for orders and reveal what would please him, Damian tended to send Fenris to pick weeds in the garden or dust surfaces in the house. Small, light tasks to keep him busy while Damian took care of the heavier work. Fenris could undoubtedly handle more by now, at least physically, but Damian did not want to ask someone with the mindset of a slave to do something unless it was absolutely necessary. And he was not of a mind to let Fenris get close to an axe.

* * *

It took longer than Hawke had anticipated, but eventually he had chopped plenty of firewood to last them for several more weeks. His gurgling stomach informed him it was well past noon while he put the axe away and began to add the new woodblocks to the pile behind the hut. He was about halfway done when Fenris rounded the corner and came walking towards him. Damian did not need to see more than two steps to notice the change: Fenris moved with determination, his strides quick and firm, as if he were in a hurry. The slouch and hunched shoulders that made him look so much smaller had made way for a straight back and a head held high. Stopping in front of Damian, Fenris did not lower his gaze but openly met the mage's eyes. _Already? But it's only been two days._

It was a glimpse of the old Fenris, the person he had come to know so intimately and had put his life and soul on the line for. A sight which should be familiar but somehow filled him more with nervousness than joy.

Fenris demandingly held out his right hand. "Give me your knife."

Taking a moment to collect himself, Damian placed his hands against his lower back and leaned back to let the sore vertebrae pop. How to act when Fenris momentarily returned to his old self was something he continued to struggle with, even as Fenris' lucid periods became more frequent. He suddenly felt like he had swallowed a stone and it was sitting heavily on his stomach. "Where are we?"

"Nevarra."

"A little more precise than that."

Fenris crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Near the river."

"What is the name of the river? There's only one in Nevarra."

A pause. Fenris' face remained impassive, impatient even, but the way he blinked twice in quick succession betrayed his uncertainty. "I don't know," he admitted eventually, the corners of his mouth pulling down just slightly in frustration.

_That's definitely something he knew before. Even when lucid his memory is not without holes._

"It's the Minanter River," Damian told him. "It moves through all of Nevarra and the Free Marches before connecting to the Amaranthine Ocean, though. Can you narrow our position down further? Do you know the name of the nearest town?"

"How am I supposed to know that if you don't know either?"

The reply got a soft chuckle from Damian. "I don't think the tiny village closest to us even has a name. I meant the nearest city you could find on a decent map." When Fenris did not answer he decided to offer prompts to help him. Rubbing the failings of his memory in tended to upset the elf and throw him out of his lucid state. "Are we west or east of the capital?"

"West." The relief that he knew the answer this time lit up Fenris' eyes in a way which did not escape Damian.

"West or east of Hunter Fell?"

"West."

"Caimen Brea?"

Another moment of silence while Fenris wrecked his memory for certainty that remained out of his reach. "West?" The slight rise in the pitch of his voice turned it into a question.

Damian smiled and nodded his encouragement. "Good. We're actually southwest of Nessum as well, so not very far from the origin of the Minanter River."

The smile was not reciprocated. Instead Fenris held out his hand again. "Give it here."

Damian ignored the demand. "When were you last lucid?"

"Yesterday."

"Two days have passed, actually."

This time Fenris could not keep his frustration and disappointment properly hidden behind a neutral expression. He nodded slowly, a few strands of hair falling in front of his face as he did so to shield himself from Hawke's gaze.

"It's progress, Fenris." Damian moved to give the man's arm an encouraging squeeze but quickly stopped himself, more out of reservations of his own than Fenris'. Whenever possible he avoided touching the elf. Under no circumstances did he want to repeat what had happened during Fenris' first moment of clarity. It had taken Damian days to bring himself to get out of bed after that. His promise to Fenris had kept him going. _I will always take care of you._

Fenris must have noticed Damian's jerky moment and guessed his intent, because he looked up, his eyes hard and his emotions under control again. A pointed look at the empty palm of his waiting hand made it clear he did not intend to repeat his request.

_Of all the things he can choose to persist in._ Damian suppressed a groan and scratched his chin through his beard. "You know, I'm still not comfortable with this. What if your lucidity suddenly slips? You already stabbed – and _killed_ – someone with my knife once. A mage too."

Fenris did not appear impressed by Hawke's protests. "So you keep saying."

"It's still as true as the first time," he muttered.

"I will not stab you."

"A promise you are bound to forget if things go wrong is not very comforting."

Impatience rippled across Fenris' features. His brow lowered into a scowl. "Your comfort would have been of greater concern if you had not turned to the arts of maleficarum." His outstretched hand twitched, a sign that it still waited to be filled. "We have gone over this before."

Damian sighed. "Indeed we have. And it never ceases to feel pointless. You do realize this would hardly prevent me from doing harm if I wished to? I just used an axe to chop wood, and maybe I have a splinter now..." Another glare from Fenris silenced his protests and made him sigh again. "And surprisingly that does nothing to reassure you. Fine. Here." He removed the old, small knife from his belt and carefully handed it to Fenris, whom immediately closed his fingers around the handle and walked away. Damian followed him into their hut, intent to not let the elf out of his sight while he was holding a weapon. Dementia patients and sharp, pointy objects were always a risky combination, even if said patient was Fenris. Especially if said patient was Fenris.

They had indeed gone through the same exchange numerous times before. It had become somewhat of a constant between them whenever Fenris came to his senses. Not giving in to Fenris' demand would no doubt be the safer option, but Damian did not want to keep fighting over the issue every time and aggravate Fenris too much. He had learned that being calm and accommodating had the most positive effect, and if he could ease Fenris' mind a bit with regards to his blood magic he was willing to take a risk. Not that he really understood why Fenris kept insisting on this particular measure. He could not rule out that it was merely meant to annoy him, but he had given up on trying to get a proper explanation. So he watched as Fenris moved to hide the knife from view under a pile of books – a precaution for when the lucidity would lapse.

"Not there," he quickly interjected. "You hid it there last time." Changing the hiding place should decrease the chance Fenris somehow remained aware of the knife and would be able to retrieve it when he should not. No need to add to the risk

Fenris shot a look over his shoulder, then nodded and placed the knife on a high shelf. Once Damian had assured himself it was out of view he went to the cabinet to grab quill and ink. "I'll mark the calendar for you."

After the first three periods of lucidity Fenris had experienced, they had begun to record them to keep track. Damian scribbled down a note for today's date, then showed the page for the current month to Fenris. There was no denying Fenris' condition was improving. His mind cleared more frequently and remained that way for a longer amount of time. The last few periods had lasted several hours. Even two months ago Damian would not have believed the improvements would continue at this rate. For how much longer this trend would persist he did not dare to guess. Neither of them had spoken of the possibility of a full recovery and what would happen should that moment arrive, despite it obviously being on both their minds.

Silence fell. Neither of them knew what to say now their squabble had been resolved. Damian put the calendar away and repeatedly flexed his left hand. It hurt after wielding the axe during the entire morning. Several of the joints in the hand and fingers had not healed properly after they had been broken, leaving the use of his hand hindered. He was no longer capable of fully closing it and most of his grip had to be provided by his thumb.

Eventually he drew in a deep breath. _Will this ever stop being so awkward?_ "So..." he began, "The chicken coop needs to get cleaned out. Could you do that?"

Fenris' upper lip drawing up in disgust made it clear how this suggestion was perceived.

Damian shrugged apologetically. "You don't have to. I can do it, but you've said you wanted to help."

"I did?" Fenris feigned ignorance.

"You did. Repeatedly, in fact."

"I know. I remember." Fenris shook his head as Damian deflated at the realization the elf had been pulling his leg. After a moment of consideration he added: "I want to practice afterwards."

Now it was Damian's turn to pretend he did not know what the other was talking about. "Practice? I daresay you don't need extra practice to deal with chicken shit."

No smile from Fenris in return. "Sword practice."

_Wonderful. So that stuck as well._ Damian dragged a few fingers through his hair, untangling a couple of knots that had formed during his work. "I'm not sure that's-"

"I am not asking for your permission," Fenris cut him off, steel warning in his voice.

"Well, that's nice, but I don't have a blade for you to practice with."

Puzzlement, while Fenris tried to validate past events in his mind, followed by an accusatory glare when he found a solid memory to hold on to. "Do not try to fool me, mage. I remember training with a wooden sword."

Damian spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "You did, but you destroyed it out of frustration when the training didn't go well enough to your liking. I haven't had the chance to make you a new one yet."

_I could have known he'd not let this go. Fenris without a sword is like... a dog without drool. _A little nervous he waited for a reaction. It was no surprise that Fenris had no recollection of the end of his most recent training session. His anger had quickly thrown him back into the hold of dementia and he rarely remembered anything that had occurred not long before the end of his lucid moment.

On Fenris' face the desire to accuse Hawke of lying warred with the more reasonable part that wanted to accept the explanation. Damian could sense the recovering warrior's frustration at the thought he had let his temper get the better of him and not even remembering it.

Eventually reason won. Fenris folded his arms again, a posture he often assumed when he wanted to disagree but could not. "Then I ask you to make me a new one."

_Please_ was noticeably absent from the request; a compromise to not have to admit full defeat after Damian had not immediately fully clarified the situation, but Damian could see the word shine in the large emerald eyes.

"I will," he promised.

"Or I can do it myself."

"No." He probably could have gone about that in a slightly less direct manner, but after just having explained why the previous wooden sword had been reduced to splinters Damian felt little need to elaborate on why this qualified as a bad idea. In hopes of distracting Fenris, he quickly came up with an alternative solution. "Maybe in the meantime you could try other exercises to strengthen your muscles? I admit I have shied away from giving you heavier work to do, but perhaps it's time to strain your body a little more. You could help put the firewood away. After you've cleaned the chicken coop." Amusement vibrated in his voice when he spoke that last sentence.

For a moment it appeared the corners of Fenris' mouth wanted to curl up, but then the elf simply nodded, his face firmly set in its stony expression.

What he would not give to see Fenris smile again. Or better yet: hear that deep, throaty laugh. With a sad twinge in his stomach Damian realized he could not remember when they had last laughed together.

_I don't think we're going fishing today._

* * *

After sharing a small lunch they went back outside and did their chores as long as daylight lasted. Fenris spent most of his afternoon dragging logs back and forth, even after they had all been placed in a neat pile against the hut. He probably would have kept it up in the dark as well if Damian had not coerced him into allowing himself a rest and lending a hand with cooking. The elf must be feeling sore now, but Damian knew better than to argue. He would heal the scratches and splinters once Fenris' mind had retreated from clarity. Fenris was pushing himself; that much was clear, but as long as sore muscles and a few scratches were the only damage, Damian would let it be.

Dinner had been predictably quiet, but Fenris remained himself throughout – possibly a new record. Although he was not asked to, he helped wash the dishes. After he had dried the last pan and put it away, Fenris wandered over to the stack of books lying near the couch. Apparently there was nothing to his liking, because he approached Damian instead of picking a book. "Do you have anything to read?"

"I have a new letter from Carver." Damian rummaged through the correspondence he had put in a drawer of the cabinet and handed two sheets of parchment to Fenris. "It will get you bonus points for deciphering his handwriting."

Fenris settled against a pillow on the couch, close to the burning hearth, while Hawke sat back at the dining table to give him some space. Although he tried not to, Damian could not help but repeatedly glance in his direction. Fenris hated it when he stared at him but it was difficult not to look. Even from a distance and with his white hair shielding his face from the side, the look of concentration on the elf's face was evident, the way his lips quietly moved as he tried to discern Carver's offensively sloppy handwriting impossible to miss. He held the letter in one hand, tilted to catch enough light from the fire to read, while his free hand absentmindedly rubbed the markings swirling over his lower arm.

Once, they would have been sitting together, sharing the heat of each other rather than that of the fire. Fenris would have read aloud and Damian would have listened, with Fenris' warm presence against his chest, the scent of his hair in his nose and a glass of wine close at hand. Even a letter from Uncle Gamlen would have been a pleasure to listen to if it was read in that low, gravelly voice.

Damian shut the longing for events of the past down. He could no longer make such claims to Fenris' proximity.

They did not speak much during these lucid periods, usually limiting themselves to brief exchanges of necessities. So when Fenris' voice unexpectedly reached Damian's ears he nearly jumped in his chair in surprise. His first assumption was that he was being scolded for staring and he quickly tried to pretend he had been looking at the ceiling, before realizing what Fenris was actually saying. "Your brother writes about suspicions of corruption within the Wardens' ranks?"

Fighting the tendency to look overly surprised by the fact that Fenris was suddenly striking up a conversation, Damian nodded. "He does. He already mentioned several Wardens suddenly moved south without having actual orders to do so in an earlier message."

Fenris peered at the page in his hand. "And now they have lost contact with multiple outposts in Orlais."

"Yes, and he heard from a friend who was stationed in Ferelden that the Wardens there have been called back to Orlais too."

"Could it be a new Blight?"

"By the Void, I hope not!" Damian leaned back and suppressed a shudder. The darkspawn horde pouring over Lothering and chasing him and his family through a landscape that died and was tainted more with every step was something he would never forget. He would be happy if he never saw one of those monsters again. He did not envy Carver. "If darkspawn activity was the reason, why would Carver not be informed? The Grey Wardens are a secretive order but it makes no sense to hide an upcoming Blight from their own colleagues. He claims he talked to Stroud about it and he doesn't understand what's going on either. It all sounds very strange. Maybe it has something to do with the holes in the sky Varric wrote about? The biggest destroyed an old temple in Haven and the peace conference that was being held within. Do you remember hearing about that? Apparently they're tears in the Veil and demons can enter our world through them. Could be that the southern Wardens are trying to deal with them. Demons are not much friendlier than darkspawn... Fenris?"

Fenris' gaze had turned distant an unfocused. When Damian spoke his name he blinked a few times before finally looking Hawke's way. Once he did, he hastily got to his feet and hurried over to the table. "Forgive me, Master. I did not hear."

Damian softly shook his head and rubbed his face. "It's nothing. Never mind." He dragged himself out of the chair. "I'm going to check on the glyphs. I'll be right back.

He reached for his staff and grabbed a lantern, which he lit with a quick flick of his fingers, then left the room. It was pitch black outside, the only light coming from his lantern and the windows in the hut. The stars and moon did not manage to shine through the tall trees, despite the absence of leaves. Damian walked down the path toward the first glyph of paralysis. There was little reason to expect trouble. So far the glyphs had only ever had to trap an angry boar. No sign of Templars, bandits, demons or Seekers anywhere near their hideout. Keeping Fenris from accidentally – or purposefully – getting away had become the primary purpose of the spells, and even that had only happened a handful of times. Normally he merely had to recast them to maintain their effectiveness.

When his light source illuminated a human-shaped silhouette on the glyph's location, Damian nearly dropped the lantern. There was someone here. Someone had found the track leading to the shack and decided to follow it. Out of curiosity, or with a purpose in mind? Hawke's heart started beating faster. With a few long strides he closed the distance to the helpless intruder. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

He raised the lantern to get a better look. The trespasser was a young man, no older than early twenties. Soft, fuzzy hairs covered his upper lip and cheeks which had not fully lost the roundness of boyhood yet. He wore a wide, light green hood which was secured with a metal pin near his left shoulder. Underneath the hood he wore an odd, beige helmet. Because Damian was taller than him and the paralysis did not allow him to tilt his head, the boy could only get a look at Hawke's face by making his eyes roll up. "Serah Hawke?"

_He knows my name!_ No mere peasant who had wandered here by accident then. Damian flipped the staff over in his hand to raise the sharp blade at the bottom of the weapon to the intruder's throat. He could burn the boy to a crisp if he chose to do so, but for now he would not openly display his status as a mage. The paralysis could still be blamed on poison or some sort of cunning trap. "What do you want?" he demanded in a low voice.

The boy's eyes flicked back and forth between Hawke's face and the staff. "I..." His throat worked as he swallowed. "My name is Willem. I have a message from Varric Tethras for the Ch-champion of Kirkwall."

Damian slightly increased the pressure of the blade. "I travel to the nearest city to collect my messages. Why would Varric suddenly send a messenger all the way to my doorstep?"

"This-this is urgent, Messere! Messere Varric wants your reply as quickly as possible. It has to do with the Inquisition!"

_How many times do I need to tell that dwarf I'm not interested?_ "Where is this message?"

The messenger breathed quickly through his mouth. "In my bag," he whined. "See for yourself. Please..."

After a long, hard look at his unannounced guest Damian finally lowered his staff, hung the lantern on a decorative spike at the top and let it lean against his shoulder to balance it. With his hands now free he opened the messenger's satchel and retrieved a single scroll. He took two steps back before breaking the seal. His eyes raced over the lines, clearly written by Varric's hand.

"Well, shit."


	2. Chapter 2

_Varric has to be lying._ It was the first thought popping into Damian's mind after reading the letter. The dwarven storyteller had to be making things up. As a prank, or to pull him into a new adventure, another story. There was no other explanation. Because what was described in Varric's message was impossible. What was dead stayed dead. Time and again this had been proven true. Dead, dull eyes would not come alive and light up again. That applied to everyone, even an ancient darkspawn magister.

It should.

So why would Varric write that Corypheus was alive when Damian had killed the monster years ago? Killing was what he did best and after numerous fights, skirmishes and battles he could easily see through the tricks of attempting to play dead. Corypheus had not faked his death. There simply was no way he, Fenris, Carver, or Anders would not have noticed.

It could not be true.

So it had to be a lie.

Damian looked up from the letter, his eyes drifting over the young messenger's face. Would Varric send what appeared to be an official messenger of the Inquisition just to deliver false information? Maybe to make it more believable? Or maybe it was a mistake, something else could have adopted the magister's name, either as a coincidence or to instill greater fear.

The boy - still trapped by the glyph of paralysis - kept his sights trained on Hawke. He appeared too intimidated to say something after he had felt the sting of a blade at his throat and waited for Hawke to do something. Deciding he was unlikely to be a danger, Damian undid the spell holding him. Willem the messenger's shoulders slumped in relief when the freedom to move was returned to him. A shaky sigh escaped from his mouth.

Damian watched him intently as he flexed and extended his limbs to get the blood flowing through them again. "Do you know what's in here?" Damian asked him, holding up the scroll.

"I... I haven't read it, if that's what you mean, Champion," the messenger stuttered. "But I can guess what it's about."

Damian took hold of his staff again and stepped closer. "Do tell."

Willem nervously licked his lips, visibly suppressing the urge to back away. "I think it's about Corypheus, Champion, and how the Inquisition needs your help. They say you have killed him before."

_That's not what I wanted to hear._ Unless Varric had instructed the youth on what to say - a possibility which could not be ruled out yet - it had just become considerably less likely the letter contained nothing but a fabricated story.

"What do you know about Corypheus?" Damian snapped. He knew he was being rude, hostile even, but he still did not want to accept the story and – more importantly – what it could mean. He did not want new problems, more responsibilities beyond taking care of Fenris. It was not the messenger's fault, but damn him for bringing bad news, for trying to drag him away from the only thing that should matter! "Did you see him with your own eyes? You're not just relying on Varric as a source of information?"

"N-no, Champion. On... on both accounts, I mean. I have not seen him myself, but the Inquisitor has, and so have many others. He attacked Haven because he wanted to steal the Inquisitor's mark. She barely got away. She caused an avalanche, she did. Right on top of Corypheus."

"Sounds like the Inquisitor solved the problem then."

The messenger ruefully shook his head. "It was not enough. He's still alive, commanding his troops. He remains a threat."

Something was tugging at the back of Damian's mind. Something important, a nagging feeling that this meant something personal, signified an immediate threat beyond the fact an insane, tainted magister was on the loose and going on a rampage in Thedas. He could not grasp it, though, and so he returned to the lingering question of _how_ this was possible. Corypheus had been dead. There was no doubt about it. So who or what had showed up to attack the Inquisition? Could Wardens have resurrected his corpse in an attempt to gain a potential asset in the fight against the Blights? But all the Wardens who had been present for Corypheus' awakening had been killed. All except for Larius, and he would never have tried to revive the creature he had insisted on killing.

_Wardens..._

_"...suspicions of corruption within the Wardens' ranks."_

Could it be? Could there be a connection between Corypheus' resurrection and the suspicious behavior of the Wardens Carver had noticed? Had Larius informed others within his Order and been betrayed by them?

A chill crept underneath his layer of warm clothes. The nagging sensation intensified, concern for this important piece of realization dodging his grasp taunted him. Damian tried to ignore it, shrug it off. Whatever it was, it did not matter, was not his problem. As long as the only unexpected guest showing up on his doorstep was a young messenger bearing unwelcome news, he and Fenris had nothing to fear. He would start worrying when insane Carta dwarves intent on doing Corypheus' bidding came for-

His staff dug into the forest ground as Damian suddenly leaned heavily on it to maintain his balance. The lantern swung dangerously from side to side and almost fell off. A sharp intake of air accompanied the realization of what had been bothering him.

The pieces connected: the enthralled dwarves who had ambushed both himself and his brother in an attempt to get their blood and perform the ritual required to destroy the bindings holding Corypheus. Larius' claim that the ancient magister could influence the minds of those who carried the darkspawn corruption inside them and that this influence had made Warden Janeka believe she could control the monster. Anders' mind steadily unraveling under the assault of the creature's whispers until he had snapped and attacked their small group.

Damian barely heard Willem's concerned "Champion? Are you well?".

The ominous sense of foreboding had blown up into dread.

How Corypheus had managed to come back from the dead was not important. The fact - or even the possibility – that he had was enough and could not be ignored. The autonomy of the Grey Wardens was in danger.

The powerful darkspawn had guided the actions of those Carta dwarves and the Wardens near his prison, and that was while he had been sleeping! What could he be capable of when fully awake and in his full power? If the numerous breaches in the Veil described by Varric were anything to go by, the answer to that question was not very promising... Could Corypheus do what he had been doing during his slumber? Could he do worse when putting actual thought into it?

The parchment creased in Damian's tightening fist. Carver was a Warden, stationed not far from the Nevarran border. Could he fall under Corypheus' influence? What if he was called to Orlais and involved in whatever it was the southern Wardens were up to now? Would it bring him right into the monster's arms? Was his little brother in danger?

During the long silence Willem had found the courage to approach him. "Champion? I do not mean to... but I received instructions to escort you to Skyhold. Will you come and aid the Inquisition?"

Damian started when he felt a hand descend on his arm. His head jerked up and he blinked repeatedly before properly focusing on the younger man. "I... need to think on this," he mumbled. "I need time to decide what to do."

A quick nod to show understanding. "Of course."

"You can spend the night here," Damian offered reluctantly. In truth he was not eager to have a stranger in his home, not with Fenris acting like a slave, but the nearest inn was miles away. It was already dark, and it was his fault that Willem had spent who-knew-how-long in the cold before Damian found him. Sending the boy on his way was difficult to justify, being a complete ass the only real reason for it.

Willem, in turn, did not appear eager to accept the invitation either after the inhospitable welcome he had been exposed to. The lengthy pause before he agreed betrayed his hesitation, but eventually he did walk back to the hut with Hawke.

When they went inside, Fenris practically jumped off the couch, apparently fearing he would be punished for lounging while a guest had arrived. The only visitor they had ever had here was Varric, and that was already a long time ago. This new, unfamiliar presence made him nervous.

Before Fenris would get himself too worked up, Damian tried to reassure him. "It's alright, Fenris," he told the elf. "You can sit back down. This is Willem. Willem, this is Fenris. Willem has made a long journey to deliver a letter to us and he will sleep here tonight. He won't stay long, and you don't need to worry about serving him. I will take care of it."

Fenris stared at Willem for a moment longer before remembering his place and quickly lowering his gaze to the floor. "Yes, Master."

After another encouraging motion from Hawke's hands, Fenris sat down again, but his eyes kept dancing between the two humans. He was hunching again, making himself small, and clearly not fully reassured by Hawke's words.

Meanwhile Damian put the lantern and his staff away. He could sense the messenger's surprise. Whether it was due to the idea the great Champion of Kirkwall kept a slave or because he had heard stories of a skilled elven warrior being the Champion's lover, Damian did not know. He did not want to hear it either, nor did he feel the desire to provide a thorough explanation of the situation. So instead he gave Willem a cold look. "Fenris is not entirely well and does not fully understand what is going on around him. Just leave him alone and it should be fine. Upset him, and you _will_ be sorry. Understood?" Only when Willem had uttered something resembling agreement did he fully accept the role of host. With a smile he clasped the boy's shoulder, knowing full well that this would not be perceived as comforting. "Do you want something to eat? There's still some stew left."

"Yes, please." Willem bowed his head in Fenris' direction before taking a seat at the table and waiting for Hawke to bring him his meal. "Pleased to meet you, Fenris."

Once he had filled his belly, the messenger told them what he knew of Corypheus, Skyhold, the Inquisitor and other members of the Inquisition. Most of it Damian already knew from Varric's letters, although he was surprised to find out the Inquisitor really was a dwarf. He had half suspected Varric had been joking about that part. He was hardly interested in hearing about the colorful figures that had joined the Inquisitions, however, and it did not take long for his thoughts to return to the possible connection between Corypheus and the Wardens.

If his suspicions were correct, the Inquisition needed to know. They could warn the Grey Wardens, help them take precautions, tell them to move away from Orlais... but what good would that do? He had no idea how strong the magister's abilities to influence the mind were, but if some had already fallen under it they would probably refuse to leave. That was, if they would believe the story in the first place. Grey Wardens were created to destroy darkspawn, so the notion they could actually be vulnerable to a particular type of their enemy seemed contradictory. Instead of running they might insist on fighting the tainted magister. Maybe that was why the initial calls to move to Orlais had been made? Because they believed they could make a difference in the fight against Corypheus? And aside from telling the Wardens to move out of the magister's reach, what help could the Inquisition offer the Wardens? A dead Corypheus – irrevocably, permanently, completely, absolutely and thoroughly dead – was the only real solution.

"Has the Inquisition contacted the Wardens?" Damian's question interrupted Willem in the middle of a story about the horn size of a Qunari who had pledged his services to the Inquisition.

"What?"

Damian drummed with his fingertips on the table's surface. "The Grey Wardens. Has the Inquisitor approached them? Corypheus is a darkspawn, so they should be the experts to turn to."

"There's a Warden who has joined the Inquisition," the messenger said hesitantly. "I don't know about an alliance with the Order. Maybe messages were dispatched and I simply had not heard of it before I left."

"One lone Warden is hardly a joint effort." Damian rubbed his chin. There had probably not been a potential answer that would have set his mind at ease, but this only made his trepidation worse. Why would there just be one Warden? Could it be a spy working for Corypheus?

He cursed inwardly. The more he thought on it, the worse the situation appeared to get. Sharing his fears and theories with the boy would do little good. Willem did not know enough to give satisfying answers. Something had to be done, Damian knew that much. But deciding _what_ and _how _was not that easy.

* * *

He ended up sending Fenris to bed early, combating the guilty thought it was much like treating him as a child, but the elf had remained tense during the entire evening and Damian wanted to give him the chance to wind down. He stayed up with Willem for a while longer, but after their rocky start there was little ground for friendly conversation. So when the most important information about the Inquisition had been diverged they also ran out of things to discuss.

Going to sleep was what they were left with. Damian handed Willem two blankets so the young man could sleep on the couch. When he headed for the bedroom his gaze was pulled towards the high shelf next to the door opening. Recalling that Fenris had hid his knife there today, Damian reached up to retrieve it.

His fingers found the metal blade before the handle. Something stirred within him when they brushed over the sharp edge, a dark pull he had thought successfully buried. Damian tried to mask his startled intake of breath with a yawn and quickly closed his hand around the knife and took it with him.

He closed the door behind him and sat down on his bed, still fully clothed, knife in hand. Even in the darkness of the bedroom he effortlessly found the thickest scar adorning his left palm and pressed the blade against it. He noted how he had done this without putting any thought into it, as if it were a logical follow up to sitting down.

He did not press down, did not cut. Instead he closed his eyes and tried to regain control, taking the sound of Fenris' breathing as an anchor of calm.

It had been many months since he had last felt the call of blood magic itch under his skin. After a long period of not practicing the dark arts, the temptation had lessened till Damian could almost forget what he was. He suspected this was in large part due to the absence of anything to focus his powers on, of something to lure him. Occasionally he had toyed with the idea of trying to fix Fenris' mind with blood magic, but he did not know how to achieve that and when Fenris had started to show improvements on his own he had abandoned the possibility altogether. He would not risk undoing Fenris' healing process. Resisting temptation was easiest when there was none to begin with.

Damian opened his eyes again. Already he could start to make out the outlines of the furniture, of Fenris sleeping in his own bed. He was afraid. From the moment he had read about Corypheus' survival it had been building up inside him, carefully snaking around his heart until it could squeeze with the realization Carver's life was at risk. And it was this fear the wordless promises in his blood fed on, what they used to draw him in. Comforting promises of unbridled power, of the ability to protect and keep safe, to squash and take what he needed, what he wished.

He could not allow Carver to become a thrall of some monster. But could he protect his little brother without losing himself? If he agreed to join the battle against Corypheus, if he went back to fighting, would he be able to refrain from turning to blood magic? He had learned it to save Fenris, and it had very nearly been his own undoing. Damian was unsure whether he could pull free again if he became tangled up in that twisted mess a second time. The corruptive power of blood magic was great. He had felt it eat away his soul.

Slowly he pulled the knife away. The worst of his moment of weakness had already passed. His dilemma, however, had not. Damian shifted back over the mattress, drew up his knees and leaned against the wall. Fenris sighing in his sleep was the only sound to be heard in the room.

If it was just him, he would not have hesitated. He would have travelled to the Inquisition, faced Corypheus, even if it would cost him the last of himself.

But he was not alone. And he could not abandon Fenris. Even with the moments of clarity the elf was experiencing, there was no way he could be left on his own for a prolonged period of time. He could not take care of himself.

Damian turned the knife over in his hands, tossed it into the air and caught it again. Was this his choice? Keep his promise to Fenris or try to save his brother? He owed both of them his aid. Carver was a Warden because Damian had taken him on the Deep Roads expedition, despite their mother begging for one child to stay behind. And Fenris... Damian had dragged him to the Imperium, to the place where his nightmares were reality, and had ultimately betrayed his trust in the worst way. A lifetime would not be long enough to make up for what he owed Fenris.

But how could he just sit here in the middle of nowhere when Carver was likely to die?

The answer was that he could not. Merely warning Carver and the other Wardens and hoping for the best was not enough. Damian gripped the knife's handle more tightly. He had to take action. Corypheus had to die, so Carver could live. There had to be a way to ensure Fenris' safety and wellbeing during his absence. Damian could not take him to Skyhold, to a fortress filled with soldiers and strangers. He could not expect that random members of the Inquisition would care for a demented elf. Not with the patience and kindness Fenris deserved. If he could find a place for Fenris to stay, someone to take care of him, Damian would not have to break his promise. He would go back as soon as the threat had been dealt with.

Damian watched Fenris' face, which was turned toward him, one side flattened against the pillow. The thought of not seeing it every day made his throat feel dry, even if it would only be temporary. He pushed the selfish sentiment aside. He had to decide with whom he could leave Fenris.

Unfortunately his solution did not come with a long list of options. It had to be someone both he and Fenris could trust. Carver was the only family Damian had left, and even if he had believed his younger brother to be capable of playing nursemaid for Fenris, his life as a Warden made that impossible. Well, there was Gamlen as well in the family category, but merely picturing his grouchy uncle as Fenris' caregiver gave Damian a headache. Already he could think of a dozen scenarios in which this went horribly wrong, Fenris ending up killing Gamlen being the most rosy of them all.

So that left a friend, and he did not have a lot of those left either. Varric would have been Damian's first choice, but the dwarf was in Skyhold and involved in the Inquisition's business. Isabela was raiding somewhere and would just end up causing trouble not only for herself, but Fenris as well. Merrill and Fenris had never been friends and Fenris might refuse to stay once he became lucid. Sebastian had declared himself Damian's archenemy after his refusal to kill Anders.

Which meant he actually had only one option.

He loosened his grip again and spun the knife around in his hand. Aveline could do it. From Varric he had heard that she had returned to Kirkwall and resumed her duties as Guard-Captain. She was patient and by far the most responsible of his old friends. She had a home, a stable place for Fenris to work on his health... as far as Kirkwall could ever qualify as stable. Donnic would be able to help, and Fenris had always gotten along well with both of them. All in all, Aveline was the perfect choice.

Except she hated Damian. He had threatened to kill her husband. So there was that. He had hoped to never have to face her again. Because she would have him kicked out of Kirkwall as soon as she laid eyes on him. Or have him thrown in jail. Break his nose. Crush his balls. All in all he would be unlikely to make it through the encounter unscathed.


	3. Chapter 3

He barely slept that night. Damian kept going over decisions he had practically made and yet was reluctant to accept. Especially leaving Fenris was a heavy burden his mind fought to escape. He had found a way to deal with the mood swings, learned to navigate the pitfalls of the elf's dementia and did his best to aid in his recovery. Would a change of environment set Fenris back? If Willem's presence had already made him stressed, how would he handle a journey to Kirkwall, a new home and— to him — unfamiliar faces as caretakers?

By now Damian suspected the long, arduous journey through the Tevinter Imperium and the Silent Plains was one of the reasons it had taken so long before Fenris' mind had shown any signs of improvement. Would dragging him all the way to Kirkwall undo the progress he had made?

At least the damage could never surpass that of the lyrium poisoning itself. If Fenris could overcome that, he was not going to be held back by even the most horrendous trip. Damian tried to find comfort in this notion, but it felt more like a false reassurance.

But first and foremost Carver had to be warned and sent somewhere safe, hopefully out of Corypheus' reach. With the suspected corruption within the Wardens' ranks, Damian could not rely on a letter to deliver all his suspicions to his sibling. And if a message did reach Carver, there was no guarantee his stubborn brother would comply and go into hiding before it was too late.

No, he could not take any chances. He had to meet Carver face to face and convince him to cooperate. Then he would be able to focus on defeating Corypheus, strengthened by the certainty his little brother was not in immediate danger. He would ensure the last surviving member of his family remained alive and well, and nothing, nobody was going to change that. Not Corypheus, not the Wardens, not Carver himself. Not even his love for Fenris and the vow to always take care of him.

With these determined thoughts Damian Hawke finally fell asleep.

* * *

When he woke, the sun had already risen and was bathing the small bedroom in light. His neck and back hurt from the sitting position he had slept in, so when he tried to straighten and sit up it was rather stiffly. It felt as if he had closed his eyes only minutes ago.

Fenris was sitting on the edge of his own bed, quietly watching Hawke with alert eyes. He was already dressed but judged by his messy hair and the remnants of sleep around his eyes, had apparently not visited the bathroom yet to clean himself up. Either he had not dared to venture into the same room as the messenger Willem, or he had interpreted Damian's abnormal pose and lack of sleepwear as reason to stay close and await instructions.

Damian rubbed his face before offering a crooked smile. "Morning," he muttered. "Did you sleep well? Have you been up for long?"

"No, Master. Only an hour or so."

"I would qualify that as long." Damian swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got to his feet. As he did so, his knife tumbled from his lap onto the floor with a thud.

He shot a startled look at Fenris before quickly lunging forward and grabbing the small weapon, inwardly cursing his own stupidity. The first sign of trouble and he was already slipping up and making careless mistakes! He had fallen asleep without putting the knife away, leaving it in clear view. Fenris could easily have taken it without Damian noticing, or the blade could have fallen on the floor while he was sleeping, just ready to be picked up... What an idiot he was! He would have to take care and not let his attention falter in the nearby future, or the journey to Kirkwall would not be the event most likely to cause trouble.

Though Fenris' gaze had followed the knife when it dropped and Hawke's scramble to retrieve it, he made no move to reach for it himself. He stayed on the bed, obediently waiting to be told what to do.

Hiding the knife behind his back, Damian smiled again. "You can go wash. I will change my clothes and start making breakfast in a moment."

Fenris nodded, but hesitated to actually follow the instructions. "Master..." he began, "There is another man in the living room."

"I know. He was our guest for the evening but will leave today. Don't worry about him. He won't bite. Oh, and please... don't call me master." He sighed. "Just Hawke."

* * *

Willem was already up and dressed when Damian walked in after changing into a fresh set of clothes. By the looks of it he had not had the best night's rest either, but he gave a polite nod as greeting, which Damian answered in kind. The boy was clearly afraid of him and ill at ease. A few years ago this would have annoyed Damian, people's reservation with him and his magic a reason for mockery and sarcasm - as Fenris had learned more than once. Now he hardly cared, actually finding it convenient. If they feared you, they tended to leave you alone. The uncomfortable silence during breakfast was an acceptable price. He had gotten used to those by now anyway.

Once they had eaten and cleaned up, Damian spread out a map over the dinner table and bent over it, his fingers trailing from the unmarked spot where he estimated their location to be to the small dot representing Kirkwall. They would have a long way to go. How was he supposed to get Fenris to the city? Kirkwall was hundreds, if not a thousand miles away. Travelling on foot with just the two of them could be risky, never mind slow. He had no idea where all those mysterious Veil rifts had appeared and whether they would run into one. His magic should be enough to deal with bandits on the road, but demons were a different matter. Fenris could not be relied on in a fight - he could get hurt, or panic and flee.

There was safety in numbers. He could join up with a caravan or hire a few mercenaries. Yet travelling with a group of strangers carried risks of its own. Slavery was illegal everywhere except in the Tevinter Imperium, so chances were that any fellow travelers would react negatively to Fenris' behavior and Damian's suspected role in it. Even if they accepted dementia as the reason for the elf's impairments, it was difficult to explain how he had ended up with the illusion he was a slave without suspicion landing on Damian. And if one of Fenris' fits of aggression was triggered, someone could get hurt, which in turn would create more hostility. It would be better to avoid the company of other people whenever they could.

He was going to have to compromise. He had to get to Skyhold – and before that: Kirkwall – as quickly and safely as possible. Perhaps they could make part of the journey by ship, travel the Minanter River and the Waking Sea to reach the City of Chains.

Without looking up, he asked: "Where is Skyhold?"

Willem joined him at the table and pointed somewhere at the border between Ferelden and Orlais in the Frostback Mountains. "There." After only getting a confirmatory hum from Damian, indicating that he understood, the young man cleared his throat. "Does... that mean you have made a decision, Champion? You will aid the Inquisition and come to Skyhold with me?"

Damian ignored him, turning his attention back to Nevarra. They would have to cross the entire country to get to Kirkwall, much too far to travel on foot. There was simply not enough time. Mounts would speed up the journey considerably, but he had never learned how to ride. As a small farm village, Lothering had had no need for horses. Mules and cows had made up the majority of the town's cattle. At the age of sixteen or seventeen, Carver had gotten into a bet which required him to stay on the back of the bull of one of the neighbors for a full minute. It had not ended well.

So no riding and limited walking in order to save time. It appeared he would indeed have to try to arrange transport on the Minanter River. If they could get to the capital of Nevarra, they could then follow the old Imperial Highway to Cumberland and from there sail to Kirkwall.

Having made up his mind, Damian pushed himself away from the table to retrieve parchment, ink and a quill. Quickly he penned a short letter for Carver.

_Carver,_

_Meet me in the inn at Caimen Brea's central square as soon as you can. I have received news which could be related to the suspicions you voiced in your earlier correspondence. _

_If you have received orders to move south, don't follow them. Come see me first._

_If you believe Stroud can be trusted, bring him too, but do not inform anyone else. _

_I know this message is vague, but it's better if I explain when we meet in person._

_Damian_

Damian rolled up the parchment, tied it with a short piece of rope and handed the letter to Willem. "I need you to deliver this to my brother. He's a Warden stationed near the Anderfel border, not far from Kal-Sharok. It should not take long to reach him."

Letter in hand, the messenger shook his head. "Forgive me, Champion, but I can't do that. My assignment was to escort you to the Inquisition's headquarters or deliver word of your refusal to lend aid."

"And now you have a different assignment."

The young man's cheeks flushed with indignation. "I do not receive orders from you, Champion. I was told to-"

Damian shot him a cold look before straightening to his full height, which was at least two heads taller than Willem. "I don't care whether you initially thought this was part of your assignment or not. It is now. You are going to deliver this letter to my brother, after which you can accompany him to Caimen Brea, where I will be waiting for him. Then we head for Kirkwall to drop Fenris off, and once _that_ is done, you can guide me to Skyhold."

Despite clearly being intimidated by Hawke, Willem appeared to draw courage from what he considered his obligation to the Inquisition. "I wasn't told to run errands for you," he objected. "I am a messenger of the Inquisition, and I will–"

"You will what?" Damian interrupted him. "You're not paying attention. I am not declining to help fight Corypheus, so you don't need to report my refusal to Varric. I will join up with the Inquisition, but _only_ after I have spoken with my brother and have brought Fenris somewhere safe. Now, I suppose you could decide to run back to Skyhold instead of delivering my letter and announce my impending arrival to your superiors, even though that's not in line with your precious assignment either." He inched closer, positively towering above the young messenger. "That means I will waste time waiting for my brother, then waste even more on finding him myself. Time Corypheus can use to execute his plans and do more harm. If it's not too late by then, I will still come to Skyhold, however. And you better hope I won't spot you because you and I will have another talk when I do, and I won't be as friendly as I am now." He leaned forward, only slightly, but more than enough to make Willem shrink a couple of inches. "I know Corypheus and I know me, and I daresay neither prospect will be pleasant for you."

Willem's face – still showing the last remnants of innocent boyhood – was a mixture of anger, indignation, fear and inner conflict, all fighting for the upper hand.

Fear won.

Mouth set in a thin line of frustration, the messenger nodded his surrender. "I will deliver your message."

Damian smiled an insincere mock-smile and patted Willem's cheek. "Good lad. I suggest you leave shortly then. Time's ticking."

* * *

Because it would take a while for Willem to track Carver down and for them to get to Caimen Brea, Damian delayed his own departure by a week. He would likely still arrive in the city well before his little brother did, and he did not feel like staying in an inn with Fenris for days with nothing to do.

Fenris' mind cleared once more during that week, four days after Willem had left. Damian had both been awaiting and dreading that moment, unsure whether he should tell Fenris what was going on and that they would be leaving soon. That he would be left with Aveline and Donnic – if they agreed to take care of him – while Damian went to fight with the Inquisition.

When Fenris approached him demanding his knife Damian was still undecided on what to say, if he would say anything at all.

"Where are we?"

Fenris' voice was flat when he answered. "Neverra."

"A little more specific than that?"

"West... not far from the river."

"Do you know the name of the river?"

A pause while Fenris concentrated, then, with a hint of triumph in his voice: "Minanter."

Damian smiled encouragingly in return. "Good. What year is it?"

"9:38 Dragon." Fenris stretched out his hand again, his silent demand.

"That would have been correct two years ago," Damian told him. He could sense the frustration coming off of Fenris after what he would surely consider yet another failure of his memory and himself. Damian was aware of the man's tendency to be overly hard on himself. He would have to urge Aveline to be mindful of that, to prevent Fenris from pushing himself too much, to help him stay patient and take it slow. Healing could not be forced, especially not this kind of healing.

He swallowed. It had taken him over a year to really get used to the situation with Fenris and he still did not know the correct way to deal with some aspects. How could he instruct and prepare Aveline in one brief visit?

Fenris persisted, as always. "Give me your knife."

Not wanting to spend possibly the last of these exchanges in quite a while arguing back and forth, Damian silently took the requested item from his belt and handed it over.

Fenris' fingers closed around the handle, but otherwise he did not move. It still took Damian several heartbeats to realize the elf was staring at him quizzically. "What?"

"That's it?" Fenris' dark eyebrows lowered a bit, like he suspected he had missed something. "No protests, no dramatic reminder how I killed someone with your knife before? You just... give it to me?"

"You almost sound disappointed." Damian met Fenris' gaze, inviting – or maybe challenging – him to ask or say something.

Fenris shifted his weight, visibly uncertain whether to question the deviation from his expectation or simply accept it. His eyes searched the mage's face for a clue.

Damian knew this was the moment he should say something, that he should inform Fenris of his plans, but his own uncertainty sewed his mouth shut. He had no idea how the elf would react when he heard Damian would leave him temporarily. Would Fenris get mad, consider it the breaking of a promise? Would he be disappointed? Afraid of the prospect of two of his old friends seeing him at his lowest, as a demented slave? Would he simply greet the news with stoic indifference? Or would he be glad, happy to get away from Damian's company? Damian had no idea, nor did he know which of these was the worst.

He did not want confirmation.

Fenris inhaled, lips parting slightly, as if to suck in the breath for his question. But then his lips pressed together again and he turned on his heel to find a new hiding place for the knife.


	4. Chapter 4

Getting to Caimen Brea was easy and without trouble. They had little luggage to carry with them, little more than some extra clothes, and the terrain was flat and could quickly be traversed on foot. Most of their belongings — books, furniture, pots and pans —had been left in the hut. Damian had sealed the place off with a few extra glyphs, knowing the spells would eventually wear off if he stayed away for long. It did not worry him overmuch. The few villagers who lived nearby would likely prefer to leave the place alone even without magical safeguards, superstition and gossip about whatever depraved activities they imagined to be his hobbies more effective at keeping them away than the best security system. Not that it mattered. There was nothing of value left, the shack being far removed in terms of wealth and luxury from his old estate in Kirkwall or the manor in Minrathous he had lived in for a while. Their five chickens were probably worth the most and he had dropped those off at one of the peasants.

The inn he had chosen to meet Carver was decent, ranking a fair bit higher in clientele, comfort and smell than the Hanged Man. Caimen Brea was tucked in a bent of the – here still very narrow – Minanter River. Thanks to the constant supply of fresh water, the city could count on ever-fertile fields. Although it was not as big of a trading port as the capital Nevarra, the city saw plenty of merchants passing through. The combination of farming, fishing and trade meant the people were well off and that Caimen Brea was always buzzing with activity.

The only stain on its otherwise perfect location was carried by the eastern wind. Then the faint smell of sulfur, the stench of rotten eggs, came from the blighted Silent Plains and tainted the fresh air. Few people still noticed it, however.

Damian had used the wait till Carver's arrival to purchase some necessities for the coming journey and a pair of leather gloves to wear wherever he went, to hide the scars on his left hand and arm. Blood mages were rightly feared, and with the Circle system crumbled into chaos and mages fighting a war with the Templars, he expected people to be on high alert. If someone labeled him maleficar he could end up with an angry mob on his heels.

Fenris appeared confused and nervous throughout the trip and stay in the city but was not outright anxious. Damian had instructed – almost begged, really – him to keep quiet and not address him as 'master' within earshot of others. So far the white-haired elf had heeded the instructions, probably more out of timidity and his general tendency to try and remain unnoticed than because he actually remembered what Hawke had said.

On the evening of their third day in Caimen Brea Carver arrived. As they had done the past few days, Damian and Fenris returned to the inn to secure a table in the spacious central room to have dinner. Fenris was drawing fewer curious stares upon entering by now, the other guests having gotten used to the sight of the mysterious tattoos visible on his neck and hands. People still risked a quick glance as he passed, but they were no longer as open about it and took less time to resume their conversation or meal. However, even their fleeting interest made Fenris hunch like he wanted to sink into the ground and disappear. Whenever he was not alone with Damian, he kept looking around like he expected to be jumped at any moment.

Damian missed the determined strides with which Fenris used to cross the Hanged Man the air of confidence absorbing narrow-minded judgment and improper fascination alike without doing harm, the occasional pointed glare in the direction of an overly shameless bystander which never failed to make the receiver quickly drop their gaze. Although the elf had detested the markings his old master had burned into his flesh, he had accepted that his appearance set him apart and handled it with mild irritation at most. Years of being on the run had ensured that Fenris definitely had a paranoid streak, but the level of agitation he was displaying here was far removed from the methodical scanning of his environment and the near constant watching of a room's entrance he used to do to in Kirkwall. It was saddening to see the man act more fearful now than when he actually had cause to be cautious.

"Why are you so nervous, Fenris?" Damian asked as they took a seat. "Is there something wrong?"

Fenris tensed at the question, then cast another look over his shoulder. "I do not know these people."

"Neither do I, but that doesn't mean I need to watch them all the time. What are you afraid of?"

"I... don't know, Master," Fenris admitted eventually.

Grateful that Fenris had spoken softly and the ambient noise in the inn ensured others could not have heard the title, Damian corrected him. "Please call me Hawke." He considered elaborating on how people would disapprove of displays of slavery, but decided that was likely to achieve the opposite of setting Fenris' mind at ease. "Do you fear they will hurt you?" he tried instead. "Or me?"

Fenris squeezed his hands in his lap till the knuckles whitened. "I must remain..." He seemed to struggle coming up with the right word. "Vigilant."

_A remnant of his duties as a bodyguard? _"We have no enemies here," Damian tried to reassure him. "We're in no danger."

The widening of Fenris' eyes warned this was too close to criticism and threatened his muddled perception of the situation, so Damian quickly changed the subject. "So how do you like the city? It's pretty nice, isn't it?"

A small nod. "Yes, Hawke."

"Would you prefer to live in a city or in a small village?"

Apparently an entertaining story reached its conclusion, because the men sitting at one of the tables near to them suddenly roared with laughter. Fenris flinched at the sound. "I want to live wherever you live."

"But if you could choose – no, never mind." Damian shook his head, giving up. "Are you hungry?"

He was still contemplating whether to coax Fenris into deciding what he wanted to eat when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. Damian turned around in his seat and had to crane his neck to get a look at the face of the person standing behind him, but he recognized him at first glance.

"Carver!" Quickly he got up to greet his younger brother, surprised by the wave of relief washing over him upon seeing that familiar face. Next to him, Fenris jumped at the exclamation and eyed the two of them with a startled look while Damian grasped his sibling's forearm, leaned closer in a half-embrace and slapped him on the back. "It's good to see you."

"Brother." Carver answered the warm greeting in kind, a careful smile on his lips, as if he was still not fully used to not having to scowl when he found himself in the same room as his older sibling. Damian could feel the strength in his brother's arm and back, his status as a warrior obvious even without the greatsword strapped on his back. Carver's shoulders and arms were broader than his own, the time that the age difference between them would have been enough for Damian to get the upper hand in a wrestling match well in the past now.

They pulled back to get a better look at one another. Carver had not changed much since Damian had last seen him, on the night of the battle against Meredith in Kirkwall. A little tired maybe, with the shadow of black stubble currently covering his strong chin and jaw. Apparently he had neglected to shave during his travels.

Carver's blue eyes, several shades darker than Damian's, drifted over his brother's face and took in his appearance. Inability to master a poker face meant he could not fully hide his surprise. "You look... different."

Damian suppressed a snort. "That must be the most diplomatic thing I've ever heard coming out of your mouth." He was aware of the lingering effects of his stay in Minrathous on his looks. Although he had lost most of the weight he had gained back there, a quiet life in the middle of nowhere was not nearly as physically demanding as mercenary work had been and was not sufficient for a return to form. To his annoyance he caught himself sucking in his gut a little to hide it. This was not the moment for vanity competitions, though he suspected Carver's ego had just received a modest boost. "You look good. I'm glad to see you again."

Carver was alright. That was what mattered now. He was here, he was alive and he was looking well. Everything would be fine.

Not waiting for an invitation, Carver dragged a chair back and sat down at their table. "I'm counting on free food here," he informed Damian. "That's the least you can do after making us run all the way here with a cryptic letter and no explanation whatsoever. Your friend didn't want to say anything about what's going on either." He tilted his head towards Fenris, who was sitting opposite him, in greeting, then proceeded to scan the room for a serving girl to wave over.

Damian turned his attention to the company Carver had arrived in and who had been standing back to give the brothers time for their reunion. The dark-haired man in his early fifties was — thanks to his impressive mustache —easily identifiable as Stroud, the Grey Warden who had recruited Carver into his Order years ago and thus saved him from an early death by darkspawn corruption. He took the hand Damian offered with a firm grasp and shook it. Willem stood two steps behind him, seemingly content to keep his distance from Damian.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Stroud's smile was mild, but the cool undercurrent in his voice promised he would be less empathetic if the reason for this detour was deemed insufficient. "I trust you would not have sent the message you did if the matter was unimportant."

Neither he nor Carver wore the iconic armor with vertical azure stripes and the griffon symbol on the chest, which would make them immediately recognizable as Wardens. Instead both of them had opted for lighter leather clothing and a dark brown cloak to travel in. Damian realized only now that he should have told them to travel anonymously and hide their identity of Wardens and was pleased they had done so without notice from him. The fewer people knew where his brother had gone, the better. They had no idea how far the corruption within the Order had spread and how insistent they would be to draw everybody in.

Carver had managed to get the attention of the bar wench, so everybody took a seat and ordered their meal and something to drink. It did not take long for the steaming plates to be placed in front of them. Carver tended to his with enthusiasm and cleared half of it within minutes. "So." He washed the remnants of a particularly large bite away with a swig of ale. "Care to share that urgent news of yours now? I assume it wasn't just an excuse to see me again."

Damian did not return his smirk but glanced around the inn instead. It was reasonably crowded; most seats were occupied and the air was filled with the amicable buzz of people enjoying their dinner and discussing their day and the local news. Although he doubted Corypheus' return had to remain a secret, he felt it wiser to save this conversation for the privacy of his room. "Not here," he said. "We'll talk upstairs."

"Pffft." Carver rolled his eyes and took another bite. "Don't you ever get tired of this?" he asked Fenris. "He always needs to act so damned dramatic!"

Fenris stared at Carver for a moment, either shocked by what the junior Hawke had said or the fact he had been addressed in the first place. Naturally he opted for submissive deflection to avoid offending either party. "If you say so, Master."

Carver chuckled briefly, then nearly choked on his food when the absence of the elf's subtle, regular deadpan registered. "Wha-" He cleared his throat repeatedly, looking at Fenris for a sign of humorous intent before focusing his bewilderment on Damian. "What did he just call me?"

_It seems we're going to have this talk first._ It would have been too much to hope for that Fenris would keep his mouth shut the entire evening so they could avoid the baffled questions and judgmental reactions. "I... did write you how the markings' instability had lasting effects, didn't I?"

"On his _health_, yes," Carver retorted. "I assumed you meant he had become crippled or something like that! What in the blazes is wrong with him?"

"He is demented." Damian felt little desire to elaborate on Fenris' condition beyond a basic description. It was not what they had come here for, and he could do without his little brother's condemnation. "He doesn't remember anything about his escape or... or his time in Kirkwall. Nothing you say will stick with him for long. He believes he's still a slave and persists in that."

Carver did not look like he found this sufficient. Free meal momentarily forgotten, he gaped at Damian. "Maker's breath, Brother! How come you never mentioned any of this before?! So he thinks he's your slave and you... what, just go along with that? Does that seem bloody normal to you?"

"Of course it's not normal," Damian bit back, glancing at Fenris from the corner of his eye. The elf was not oblivious to his surroundings and was aware it was him they were arguing about, which was making him visibly nervous. His eyes kept flicking between Damian and Carver while he fidgeted in his seat and tried to make himself as small as possible. If they kept this up he would be sent into a fit of panic or rage. "But what do you suppose I should have done then? Leave him in the Imperium with an actual magister to serve?"

"No... I... no, of course not." Carver lowered his head for a moment, his way of showing defeat. "I'm sorry. I... didn't mean it like that," he mumbled awkwardly. "It just... seems like something he would have hated."

Damian rubbed his forehead. "Yes, well... Just save it, Carver," he sighed. "We rarely get to choose our fate. I did what I had to and am just glad he's still alive."

"You can't heal it?"

He lowered his hand and shook his head. "No. The markings started to fall apart and release lyrium into his system, poisoning his body and mind. I don't know why, but there's something about lyrium's effects that make it immune to magic. I could never find anything to heal."

Carver picked up the fork he had dropped in his astonishment. Because his sibling clearly did not know what else to say, Damian gave a nod. "Eat. Your dinner is getting cold."

Stroud and Willem had resigned to diplomatic silence throughout the exchange. To still be somewhat of a decent host, but mostly to divert attention from Fenris and hopefully give him time to calm down, Damian struck a conversation with the senior Grey Warden about the current unrest in southern Thedas and how much they had noticed it along their journey to Caimen Brea. Once Carver had overcome the embarrassment about his rash reaction he joined in with comments of his own. Only Willem and Fenris kept to themselves and simply listened. The worst of the tension looming over their small group was fended off this way and the remainder of the meal could be shared relatively pleasantly.

Damian knew he would disrupt the moments of peace soon enough with his news.

As soon as everyone had eaten enough – to Damian's annoyance Carver had insisted on a second portion to devour – they headed up the inn's stairs to the room Damian had rented.

"Take a seat," he invited the two Wardens, gesturing at the two chairs in the room. Fenris was directed to one of the beds. Damian initially intended to sit down there as well but then decided he preferred to remain standing and turned around.

Carver and Stroud placed their packs and weapons in a corner and sat down. Carver swung an ankle over the other knee and leaned back. Damian could see him swaying between curiosity and irritation at being kept in suspense.

"Right." Damian clasped his hands behind his back, taking a moment to order his thoughts. "As you may already know, Willem here is a messenger of the Inquisition, the organization that is supposed to deal with the breach in the Veil at Haven and the smaller rifts that are appearing throughout the land. He brought me a letter from Varric not long ago, and that message is the reason I sent for you."

"We're here for one of the dwarf's stories?" Now Carver just looked annoyed.

Damian ignored the remark. "Do you remember the darkspawn magister we fought years ago in that old Warden prison in the Vimmark Mountains? Corypheus?"

"Not likely to forget that," Carver huffed. "What of it? We killed the thing. Not satisfied with how the dwarf described it?"

"Except we didn't. Corypheus isn't dead, or not anymore at least. He is the one behind the Breach. He made himself known when he attacked Haven and tried to kill the Inquisitor. The Inquisition wants my help to deal with him."

"How's that possible?" Carver exchanged a look with Stroud. "Could he be like an Archdemon?" He glanced at Damian before clarifying: "As in very tough to kill?"

Stroud leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "This is troubling news indeed. It's good that you decided to warn us. I know little of Corypheus, but that he managed to survive while you believed him to be dead is against expectations and doesn't bode well."

"We didn't just believe him to be dead," Damian corrected. "He was. I'm certain of that. We could have chopped him into pieces and it shouldn't have made a difference. I'm honestly not sure what can be done differently this time. We need to know his weaknesses and a better strategy than beat-him-till-he-drops."

"Hmm." Stroud nodded. "I agree an investigation is in order, though I fear even the Wardens won't have a lot of information on this creature. Few of us were even aware of his existence. If Corypheus does share the qualities of an Archdemon, it is of the utmost importance we know this before engaging him in battle." He thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "I will meet with Warden-Commander Clarel in Orlais to discuss the matter. If anyone knows more about Corypheus, it will be her."

"We must rally the Wardens," Carver interjected. "If we ally ourselves with Inquisition, we should be able to defeat him."

"That's exactly the opposite of why I contacted you." Damian folded his arms. "You need to get away from Orlais and Ferelden, Carver. Stay out of Corypheus' reach and wait till he has been dealt with."

A flush crept up from Carver's neck. "Not bloody likely! Do you expect me to hide while you get to play the hero with the Inquisition? Forget it! You're not telling me what to do anymore. And besides, if Corypheus really is like an Archdemon it takes a Warden to kill him. He's a darkspawn. That makes this _my_ job, Brother, not yours."

_Up against Carver's pride. _Damian tried his best to refrain from snapping and falling back into their usual interaction pattern of growling and sniping. "You just told me you remember our fight with Corypheus. Do I need to refresh your memory on what we faced to make it to the bottom of that prison? On what happened to Anders the closer we got to that monster?" If Carver's glower was any indication, his brother did remember, but Damian decided to repeat it nonetheless. "Corypheus got into his head. He whispered to him and drove him mad until he attacked us. You—the Wardens need to stay as far away as possible."

"I was already a Warden when I helped you with Corypheus," Carver protested. "I didn't hear anything in that tower! I was fine. You can't compare Anders to me. He was possessed. Or maybe I'm simply stronger than you delicate mage-flowers!" The corded muscles of his neck rippled as if to support the latter argument.

"Or _maybe_ it was because he had been a Warden longer than you. I won't claim to know how it works, but Anders, those Carta dwarves who drank darkspawn blood, Janeka and her party... Corypheus had a way to influence them and he was not even awake while doing it. Who knows what he can do now! He already made a hole in the sky that spits demons." He turned to Stroud, hoping he would be easier to get through to. "Carver wrote about suspicious activity amongst the Wardens, about forces being called to Orlais without explanation. I fear Corypheus may be the reason. Maybe a few Wardens are already under his influence. Or they've heard about the magister's survival and are trying to arrange something in secret. Either way they could be vulnerable to Corypheus, which means the Order is in danger."

Stroud nodded and was about to open his mouth to say something, but Carver had gotten himself so thoroughly worked up that he was not of a mind to back down and let his superior speak while he sat quiet. "So what is it you propose then?" he challenged Damian. "Since you seem to know it all again and are back to issuing orders to everyone around you."

"I already told you." Damian tried to remain calm but failed to keep the sharp edge out of his voice. "I agree with Stroud's plan to investigate Corypheus' potential weaknesses so we can exploit them in battle. You go somewhere safe, and I will help the Inquisition to put an end to the magister."

"So you want me to hide in some hole, but sending Stroud and other Wardens into danger is perfectly fine. Why? Think I can't handle it? I've faced more darkspawn than you, and I've fought Corypheus before!"

Damian realized Carver actually had him stuck here, although he had latched onto it for the wrong reason. Carver believed the mage lacked confidence in his abilities, but Damian did not doubt his sibling's skill in battle for a minute. Carver had grown into a formidable warrior years ago, but how could that protect him against demonic whispers and mind control? Such influence had brought Fenris down and he had been a fighter without equal. This was no argument for singling out Carver though. It only accentuated how every Warden should leave Orlais as soon as possible.

What the other Wardens did was of little concern to him, only the danger of them falling under Corypheus' influence and making the magister more difficult to defeat cause for warning them away. Beyond that the members of the renowned Order could throw themselves headfirst into danger as far as Damian was concerned. As long as Carver's head was not among them.

_Because you're my little brother and I'll be damned if I let you die on me as well_ was the real reason, but that would hardly sway Carver.

"You can't throw yourself at him just because you hope I'm wrong." _Not good enough._

"Right. Who am I to question the machinations of the Elder Hawke, right?" Carver scoffed. "We're not in Kirkwall anymore, Brother, far from your territory. This is bigger than that and you don't get to—"

"Why can't you just..." Damian felt his patience slipping. His blood seemed to heat up in his veins. "This isn't about my imagined superiority over you! I'm not trying to steal your moment of glory. Believe me, I am not joining up with the Inquisition to be a hero. I just want to make sure you're safe."

Carver leapt to his feet, face darkening to a deep shade of scarlet. "I don't need you fussing over me!" he shouted. "I can look after myself!"

There was no backing down after the mistake he had just made, but against better judgment Damian made a last attempt to repair the damage. "I don't doubt that. But Corypheus is—"

His younger brother did not let him finish. "Just stop, Brother! Stop pretending to know it all while you haven't got a clue! You don't know any more about Corypheus than any of us, so don't act like you know what you're doing. I won't sit back and rely on you for my protection. I won't make the same mistake as Mother and Bethany."

Damian jerked as if Carver had just punched him, the blame hurled at his feet as merciless as an armored fist. Blood buzzed in his ears, overpowering the sound of his and Carver's heavy breathing while they both processed the ugliness that had just been dug up. He was aware of his own face growing warm, undoubtedly matching the color of his brother's cheeks.

"Shut it, Carver."

The command failed to douse Carver's furiousness. The presence of his superior completely forgotten, the younger Hawke persisted in his charge for the uncovered weakness of his brother, the only way he knew how to bring him down, even if there would be no victory for either of them on the other side. "They counted on you, but you couldn't save either of them, so why are you even trying now?! Your last failed attempt is sitting right there." He pointed behind Damian. "If that's what I have to look forward to – if _that's_ the best you can do – I'll pass!"

"I said shut up!" Damian bellowed. He was shaking all over, a vein pulsated on his forehead. His right hand clenched into a fist while the left was becoming cramped. The thick scar on the palm itched, a reminder of what he had done, an encouragement to do it again.

"You would love that, wouldn't you?" Carver screamed back, sending drops of saliva flying. "For me to see you as my master and lick your heel all the time! I'd rather be dead, so you can just piss off and let it happen!"

What exactly he intended to do when he raised his fist, crackling with magical energy, Damian did not know. Maybe he would strike Carver, a proper blow to make him shut his mouth. Maybe he would use magic, the only thing his brother was helpless against. Or maybe he would just shake it, swing it, because shouting obscenities was not nearly enough of an outlet for all his anger and frustration. He would never find out.

A wordless scream coming from neither brother resounded in the room, then something hard hit him between the shoulder blades and had him stumbling forward, against Carver.

Although he was the one who had been struck, Damian was the first to recover from the surprise. Quickly he spun around, jumped over the –thankfully, empty – chamber pot which was now lying on the floor near him, and reached for Fenris, who was already bolting for the door. The three others were still too stunned to act.

He got a hold of the elf's arm, but this was not met with enthusiasm. When Fenris felt himself being jerked back, he whirled around and tried to hit his captor. "No! No, let me go!"

Despite managing to pull his head back in reflex, Damian could not completely dodge the attack because he was so close. The contact with Fenris' hand split his lip, but he ignored the dull sting, seizing the opportunity to grab Fenris' other arm as well. _I knew I shouldn't have let him train._

Fenris roared again when both of his arms were firmly in Damian's grip but did not give up his struggle, wriggling and trying to kick to free himself. His attacks were rather uncoordinated and he had only recovered a fraction of the muscle strength he used to possess, but the sheer franticness of his resistance gave Damian trouble. Because the mage could not exert proper force with three fingers of his left hand, the panicked elf succeeded in jerking one arm free after multiple pulls.

Fortunately that was when Carver regained some sense and stepped in. The warrior quickly came to stand behind Fenris, grabbed the elf's arms and pressed them to his sides. Fenris' attempts to lunge forward did not even make Carver break into a sweat, grip tightening a little more all that was needed to stay in control.

"Don't hurt him," Damian warned immediately, panting from the effort of restraining the elf. Carver dragged his slender burden a few steps back to get Damian out of range of the kicking feet, but Damian followed and tried to get closer again.

"He hurt _you_," Carver grunted in protest. Stroud appeared next to him to offer help as well if needed.

_As did you,_ but Damian did not say it. The coppery tang of blood coated his tongue and distracted him, but he did his best to ignore it. Fenris' outburst demanded all his attention.

"It's fine." A basic reassurance, close to meaningless in the situation, but it would have to do. Damian avoided the kicks in his general direction and got closer to the elf. Though he had little hope he would be able to get through the panic reigning in that white-haired head, he had to try. "Fenris," he said, voice gentle as a lover's, "Fenris, it's alright. Look at me."

The words were drowned out by the elf's shouts and curses. Fenris was too caught up in fighting everything and everyone around him to even realize someone was speaking to him.

"Fenris, please!" Raising his voice had the same effect – or lack thereof. Damian leaned in from the side to bring his face closer while still avoiding being kicked, in hopes of at least getting his attention that way.

Large, emerald eyes flew over his face without truly seeing him. Only when the unfocused gaze swept over Damian's split lip did it linger, but this did not calm Fenris down. "Monster," he groaned, then repeated the same word more loudly until he was shouting again.

Damian retreated, his defeat a given. He could not draw Fenris out of his fit, not when the elf was in this deep and being restrained by a stranger. Something else had to be done, something more quick and effective. He could not sit here the entire night with Stroud, Carver and Willem while Fenris screamed his throat raw.

Fenris would hate it if Damian used magic on him, but he was not going to remember anyway and tying him down would be even worse. So Damian reached within himself for his mana and focused to shape it to his will. The process was not as fast and effortless as it had once been, the taste in his mouth nudging him to an easier, superior option. The Fade seemed to evade his grasp—only for a moment, nothing more than a few heartbeats —but enough to be noticeable.

It still took him less than ten seconds to cast the sleep spell – not bad at all – and the effect was immediate: Fenris went limp, body relaxing against Carver and head sinking to his chest. Silence filled the room as everyone took some time to recover.

Carver was the one to speak up first. "This happens more often?"

Damian wiped the narrow trail of blood from his chin with a thumb and experimentally ran his tongue over his throbbing bottom lip. It was nothing remotely serious – a couple of days and it would have mended. "It's been a long time since it was this bad, but yes, it has happened before."

Carver nodded sheepishly. Ironically, Fenris' rage appeared to have cooled his own. After a motion of Damian's head he carried the unconscious elf to the bed and carefully lowered him on it. "You won't bring him with you to fight, will you?" he asked, turning around. "To the Inquisition, I mean."

"You don't need to concern yourself with that," Damian replied sharply. "I'll handle it."

For a moment remorse shone through on Carver's face and it looked like he wanted to apologize, but then he seemed to remember the reason for their earlier argument and his expression of embarrassment hardened into a scowl.

"If the two of you are quite finished tearing each other apart as well," Stroud remarked mildly, yet with unmistakable authority laced in his voice, "perhaps we can decide on how to proceed." He took the three strides needed to end up next to the brothers.

When neither of the Hawkes said anything to protest, Stroud nodded and continued. "This is what I propose: I will travel to Orlais to warn Warden-Commander Clarel and the other Wardens and see if I can discover anything useful about Corypheus." He looked at Damian. "I will contact you and the Inquisition when I learn anything. Carver, I want you to take a group of our latest recruits to our outpost in the Silent Plains. It's been abandoned long ago, once the remainder of the horde had been eradicated after the end of the First Blight, and its existence has practically been forgotten by now. I will show it on a map and explain how to reach it."

"Won't it be better if I go with you to Orlais? I want to help with the investigation against Corypheus."

Stroud shook his head. "I will manage on my own, Carver. I am older and have been a Warden for longer, so it is best if the most dangerous task falls to me. If your brother's suspicions are correct, we need to ensure the survival of the Wardens by hiding the existence of a few from Corypheus. Two Archdemons remain, and if every Warden perishes against Corypheus, there will be no-one left to stop the next Blight. I have faith that you will be able to lead our fellow Wardens and help rebuild the Order in the South should the worst come to pass."

Carver frowned, unconvinced that he was not being sent to safety after all, but eventually relented. "Alright."

"We will discuss whom you will bring with you. Then you can head back and collect them as soon as possible."

Damian was not entirely happy either. The Silent Plains hardly met his criteria of safe territory, and a journey to gather other Wardens meant an increased risk of Carver not getting away in time and falling prey to Corypheus. "Can't he immediately go to—"

Stroud held up a hand to silence his objections. "I understand your concern for your brother, my friend," he said not unkindly. "But Carver is a Warden first and foremost and as such was supposed to relinquish all family ties. His duty lies with the Order. Though you might feel differently, I cannot let him abandon responsibility."

Damian looked at Carver, who simply shrugged to indicate he had already accepted his orders. It would have to do. At least Carver would not be called to Orlais. "Very well," he agreed. "I will await your message."

"Good." Stroud smiled as if he was confident they would bring the matter to a satisfying end. "Then that's what we're going to do."


	5. Chapter 5

Strained goodbyes were exchanged the following morning, last day's fight still fresh on everyone's mind. Carver had not yet come to terms with his older sibling's meddling and what he perceived as coddling, whereas Damian blamed the younger Hawke for Fenris' outburst and the ensuing chaos. So it was with limited conviction they told one another to take care and promised to be in touch when possible.

One evening, one single meeting was enough to undo much of the slow, tentative progress the brothers had made over the recent years. When Damian watched Carver leave, it was like they were back in Lothering, when the village's soldiers had marched for Ostagar to fight the Blight. The goodbye then had not been so different, curt, awkward, both of them too proud and stubborn to admit they cared.

Damian was not of a mind to be the first to extend his hand in an offering of peace though. A lifetime of rivalry was not so easy to bury. He did not bother mulling over whether he could have approached the conversation differently. Carver was his family and Damian would do what he had to do to keep him out of Corypheus' influence, but tiptoeing around the prickly Warden's feelings was not part of that obligation and an effort he did not have the patience for. Not with more pressing matters at stake.

Together with Fenris and Willem, Hawke headed for Caimen Brea's small docking area. He had found a fisherman who – after giving voice to all his complaints for a good ten minutes – had agreed to get them to the city of Nevarra.

Willem looked about as enthusiastic at the prospect as the fisherman had when he was informed of the plan, but had the sense not to object. After Fenris' display of aggression, the young messenger steered clear of the elf the same way he had of Hawke before, if not more. No easy task, considering the lack of other group members and the tiny vessel they used to navigate the river. The boat did not even have a single cabin – staying afloat was its one and only purpose – and reeked of fish.

Damian half-expected Fenris to make a disgusted noise or otherwise express his distaste about the smell, but since the elf had woken up, he had returned to his usual demure state. He boarded with no signs of discontentment.

After weighing the coin purse Damian handed to him in the palm of his hand, the scruffy fisherman untied his vessel from the pier, took the paddles and guided the small boat to the middle of the river, all while muttering under his breath in Nevarran. If he had to guess, Damian wagered it was a repeat or continuation of the stream of complaints he had been exposed to when trying to convince the man to bring them all the way to the capital. Only Damian's best pleading look had convinced the reluctant fisherman to cooperate. That, or the amount of coin promised for his services. _Fenris was always better at making puppy eyes._

Sadly Damian was now only subjected to those when he was being begged for orders, which made them lose most of its charm. It had been more endearing and amusing when Fenris earnestly pleaded for help with killing the hunters pursuing him. Or when he had asked for forgiveness for walking out of Hawke's bedroom all those years ago. _"Nothing can be worse than the thought of-"_

Cold, wet drops on his face forced Damian out of his moment of contemplation. It had started to rain. Damian pulled the hood of his cloak over his head to stay dry and watched Fenris across from him. The elf was huddling under his protective layers of clothing to shield himself from the rain and the cold southeastern wind. Hopefully the bad weather and this new form of travelling would distract Fenris and not trigger another outburst. Attempting to restrain him on the river would likely result in someone falling overboard. _Maybe this lousy weather is good for one thing then._

It turned out the fisherman's arguments against travelling the Minanter River at this time of year were in fact correct and not at all born from a tendency to overreact. Because it was still winter, snow in the Hunterhorn Mountains had not melted yet, which resulted in the river's water level being low. So low, that they were forced to disembark multiple times and drag their small vessel until they reached a slightly less shallow part. Although the miles they could successfully navigate the riverbed were traversed more quickly than they could have done on foot, such interruptions slowed down their progress considerably. Only close to the town Hunter Fell, around where the river widened to approximately four times its original size, they no longer ran the risk of getting stuck and could stay on board.

Despite the weather improving marginally, the hours on the river left them damp and uncomfortable, and the nights spent in sloppily erected tents on the shore were not much better. Yet nobody complained – the fisherman likely silenced by the gold in his pocket – and the shallow river was the biggest challenge they faced. Though Fenris used the title 'master' more than once, the fisherman seemed to ascribe it to their foreignness and did not suspect illegal practices of slavery. Fenris experienced neither a moment of lucidity nor a fit of aggression, so Damian was reasonably content when they reached the capital of Nevarra in eight days.

Nobody protested – or, to be more precise: Willem did not protest – when Hawke insisted on leaving the city behind the same day they arrived. Though Damian considered him little more than a boy, the young courier proved his endurance and did not give the impression of being worn down by continuous travel. If anything, he appeared more fit than Damian felt.

They avoided the largest crowds by sticking to Nevarra's outer rings and headed for the old Imperial highway to follow it south to Cumberland as planned. This, too, went better than anticipated. A not very brave band of highwaymen ambushed them along the way and attempted to rob them, but turned tail and fled after Hawke's first spell took out three thugs simultaneously. Beyond that their band of three encountered no trouble. There was no sign to be seen of demons or the dreaded Veil rifts. Apparently Corypheus had had the decency to leave the road safe.

In Cumberland they booked passage on a ship to Kirkwall. This should have been the fastest part of the journey, but that was when the weather took another turn for the worse. Barely had they set sail and left the harbor, when the wind gained in strength and dark clouds rapidly gathered above. The ensuing winter storm lasted two full days and made their ship a plaything of the waves. The Waking Sea was calm for a while after that, but as their destination neared, they were hit by yet another storm. Consequently, Damian saw little more of the journey than the inside of their cabin, with most of his waking hours devoted to trying – and more than once failing – to keep what little he had managed to eat down. Somehow he had forgotten how much he hated sailing.

Fenris did not appear troubled by seasickness. Because he was feeling so thoroughly wrung out, Damian could not keep an eye on the elf as much as he would have liked, but Fenris seemed fine with staying in their cabin and watching Hawke battle waves of nausea rather than see actual waves outside. Once or twice Damian thought he saw the elf's eyes clear and lucidity shine through, but Fenris did not act on it and the moment was so brief that Damian was not certain whether he had actually seen it or that it had been the product of his own feverish, not-seafaring-resistant mind.

The ship had to wait for the storm to blow over before it could enter Kirkwall's harbor, so when they arrived in the City of Chains, twenty-three days after their departure from Caimen Brea, it was close to midnight. Knowing they could not leave till the following day and that Aveline had probably already gone to bed, Damian led Willem and Fenris through the docks and Lowtown to the Hanged Man to spend the night there.

The Veil was thin here. It was the first thing Damian noticed upon setting foot in the city. A strange charge hung in the air, prickling his skin, like electricity during a thunderstorm, only this consisted of spirit energy. Inaudible, barely-there whispers brushed past his face, so quiet that the sound they contained was lost in the shifts of air that carried them. It made the hairs on his arms rise.

Damian wondered how he had never been aware of this during the years he had lived in Kirkwall. Had the rebellion with all its deaths, summoned demons and abominations damaged the Veil to this extent? Had it always been this way and had he simply gotten used to and forgotten about it? Or had blood magic made him more attuned to weaknesses in the Veil? He could feel the scars itch under the leather of his glove.

Kirkwall had changed, not yet fully recovered after the war that had ravaged its streets a couple of years back. The process of rebuilding appeared to be still ongoing, though the poorest districts obviously formed no priority. No doubt Hightown had been the first to be restored to its former glory. The winding maze of streets was still the same though, and without effort Damian's feet retraced the familiar route to the Hanged Man in the center of Lowtown. Strange how – against better judgment – it felt like returning home.

He had always known Kirkwall would not be home forever, had been aware of this inescapable fact the day he had first set foot here. A city this large, with so many Templars, it was bound to catch up with him, force him to flee eventually, return to safe anonymity. In a way he had, but what happened in between he would never have foreseen. He had gained wealth, fame, found true friendship and love, lost his family. Kirkwall had given and taken, taken a lot. And now he was walking its streets empty-handed.

Damian looked over his shoulder at Fenris, still silently, obediently at his heel. While he once should have known the streets as well as Hawke, the elf did not give the impression he was experiencing the same sense of familiarity now. Some dark alleys received an inspecting glance, but beyond that Fenris seemed more interested in Damian's back, eyes trained on it as if he feared the man would manage to disappear otherwise.

It was quiet inside the Hanged Man, everyone but the most persistent drunks had already called it a day and gone to bed. Corff the bartender nearly dropped the mug he had been cleaning when he saw Hawke and Fenris approach.

"Champion!" the man exclaimed. "You've returned!"

"Just for the night, I'm afraid," Damian replied. "Do you have any rooms for us?"

Corff nodded enthusiastically. "For you, of course, Champion. Things haven't been the same since you left."

_Something tells me this will be the warmest welcome I'll get here,_ Damian thought wryly. Aveline would be less pleased to see him. "Thanks, Corff. What's the word on the street? Any news?"

The bartender poured each of them a drink. "On the house," he told Damian when handing it to him. "As for news, I don't know what you already know, Champion."

Damian passed one mug on to Fenris, who for once simply accepted it, before drinking from his own. The ale still tasted as bad as he remembered. "Just assume I haven't heard anything since I left."

"Well, let's see." Corff picked up a rag and cleaned the bar, or pretended to. "Lots of folk left after the Grand Cleric was blown to pieces. They said the city is cursed and that the Maker will seek vengeance for the destruction of one of the places devoted to Him. No more mages or Templars in the city either. The Gallows have been sealed off, Guard Captain's orders I understand. Apparently the Knight-Commander statue is still there and they don't know how to remove it. Some say you can still hear her scream when it's a full moon."

Damian made a face. "Well, that's not creepy at all. So Aveline is doing fine as Captain again?"

"Aye. She returned not too long ago after disappearing with you. The one who was assigned to replace her was happy to step down, they missed her that much." He gave Hawke a knowing smile. "Us Lowtown folk know better though. They just didn't dare to make her mad, terrifying as she is."

"Probably," Damian agreed with a faint smile of his own. "Anything else?"

Corff leaned closer in a conspiring manner. "Apparently the Viscount still visits the Rose, and he has a very _interesting_ taste in elves. Scandalous." He shot a look at Fenris. "No strong warrior types like yourself, mind you. City could probably use a few more of those. No, the Viscount's lover wears skirts but has... uhm... something dangling between the legs too. I'm sure that's not your sort of thing."

Behind Hawke, Willem suppressed a snort, while Fenris simply looked bewildered. Quickly, before the white-haired elf could say or ask something, Damian steered the conversation back into more neutral territory and the part of Corff's news that actually caught his attention. "So there's finally a new Viscount? Who's the lucky one?"

"Not a true Viscount, or so I understand." The bartender shrugged. "They put a fancy word in front of the title to make it temporary. Those nobles can never make up their mind." He seemed to remember Hawke's noble lineage and hastily added: "No offense to you, of course. But for now we have Viscount Bran. I suppose it's better than Meredith."

Damian stared at him over his mug, mouth close to dropping open in disbelief. "Bran? The Seneschal? _He_'s been made Viscount?" The notion was both hilarious and terrifying. "Why? They couldn't find anybody else?"

"Yup. Claims he was forced into the job, but who believes that? Secretly he must've been ecstatic." Corff appeared rather indifferent about the matter, probably because he was unlikely to have ever had to deal with either the Seneschal or Viscount. A leader's possible deviant sexual preference was the most interesting aspect of politics to gossip about as far as he was concerned.

"I don't think I've ever seen Bran as what one could call 'amused', let alone ecstatic." Damian pushed himself away from the bar. "Thanks for the pint and the information, Corff. Good night. We're heading out early tomorrow."

* * *

The following morning Damian and Fenris were on their way to the Guard Captain's home at sunrise. Damian had woken early, the impending confrontation with Aveline and the prospect of having to leave Fenris behind enough to rob him of restful sleep. Recalling Aveline's punctuality and habit to rise early to compose the new roster, he had decided not to dawdle. Viscount's Keep was not the place for the exchange, so he had to see Aveline before she left for work. His pack he had left with Willem at the Hanged Man, with the instruction for the messenger to wait for him to get back.

"Do you remember ever being here before?" Damian asked Fenris while they climbed yet another flight of stairs.

He did not truly expect a confirmatory answer, or even one grounded in certainty, but Fenris looked around and took in his surroundings with intense concentration. "I am not sure..." he mumbled in his low voice. "Something about it does feel... familiar, Master."

In his surprise Damian did not think to correct the use of the dreaded title. Fenris recognizing – or almost recognizing – something while he was in his subservient state was nearly unheard of. Could Kirkwall actually be good for him, stimulate his memory? Or it could be a sign of underlying improvement, despite the absence of lucidity during their weeks of travel. Either way it was a positive sign. He was immediately tempted to take Fenris on a tour through the city, past all the sites they used to frequent, to see if it would trigger the man's memory further, but there was no time. It would fall to Aveline now.

"I think this is where we're supposed to be," he told Fenris, stopping in front of a medium-sized two-story house on Hightown's lower level. Hopefully Aveline had not only returned to her old job, but her old home as well.

"We're going to visit an old friend of mine," he clarified. "Although she probably won't be very happy to see me. Don't worry, she's not mad at you, so ignore any potential death glares. They're meant for me only."

Fenris did not look like this made a lot of sense to him, but nodded nevertheless. "Yes, Master."

"Good. Here we go..." Inhaling deeply, Damian raised his fist and knocked repeatedly.

Shuffling footsteps approached the door not long after, then it swung open to the inside. Donnic appeared in the opening, not yet dressed in his guardsman uniform but a simple pair of trousers and tunic. For a moment he stared wordlessly at the two men on his doorstep, then abruptly moved to slam the door shut again.

But Damian was prepared for that. Quickly he stepped forward and – not wanting to risk Donnic breaking his foot by using it as the door's only obstacle – released a gust of force magic to sent the door bouncing in the opposite direction. However, his fast response limited his accuracy, causing the wood to hit a surprised Donnic in the face. _Oops. And we're off to a fantastic start._

"Good morning to you too." He made use of the distraction to push past Donnic, who let out a curse and clutched his nose, and get inside the house before he could be kicked out on the street. An encouraging motion of his head ensured that Fenris followed suit.

With large strides Damian rounded two corners and entered the house's kitchen and dining area. Aveline was sitting at the dinner table, breakfast laid out before her. The pleasant smell of fresh bread and honey drifted towards him. "Hello, Aveline. That smells good."

Upon seeing Damian, she jumped up, indignation and surprise warring for the upper hand on her face. She was only wearing a simple nightgown of white linen with a woolen robe over it to stay warm. The cords around the neckline were untied, leaving the fabric loose around her breasts. Combined with the jumping motion it offered Damian a more expansive view of her cleavage than he had ever expected to get.

"Hawke!"

Ignoring the inhospitable tone with which his name had been spoken, Damian put Fenris' pack down, positioned his staff against the wall within arm's reach and lowered himself on the chair opposite from Aveline. The half-full plate and cup of tea in front of him indicated her husband had been enjoying his breakfast there moments ago. "Look at you," he remarked with an eyebrow raised in amusement. He leaned against the wall, left arm slung over the back of the chair. "Having breakfast in a state of undress. I always figured you only slept without armor on. Maybe not even that."

Her movement to readjust the nightgown and cover more of her bosom elicited a chuckle from him. "Please, Aveline. I'm not here to leer at your breasts. You know that's not where my interest lies. Just... sit back down for a moment. I didn't mean to interrupt your breakfast."

His eyes drifted over the table. "Ooh, where did you get apples at this time of year?" He took one shiny green fruit from the bowl and rolled it between the palms of his hands.

Apparently Donnic had recovered from his confrontation with the front door, because he stormed into the kitchen, sword in hand. "Get out," he growled, pointing the weapon at Damian.

Damian looked at the blood seeping from the guard's nose. At first glance it did not appear to be broken. "Sorry about that. I can heal it if you want."

"You keep your magic away from me," Donnic ground through gritted teeth. The sword was raised to the mage's throat.

This did not sit well with Fenris, who sidled closer to the brown-haired human and looked like he intended to throw himself at the sword arm. Or the sword itself.

Damian returned Donnic's glare. "Put that away. You're making him nervous."

"So you've successfully turned him into your guard dog now?" Donnic spat.

"If I had, you would have a broken wrist by now. At the very least. I am not here to fight, but if you upset Fenris or insinuate he's a dog again, I might change my mind."

"Why _are_ you here, Hawke?" Aveline demanded. She gestured to Donnic to back off, who reluctantly put more distance between himself, Fenris and Damian and lowered his sword a little.

Damian dragged the chair next to him back with a foot, inviting Fenris to sit down. Then he took the knife from his belt and started to cut the apple into pieces. He caught a glimpse of Donnic tensing upon spotting the small knife in Damian's hand. Idly he noted his dislike of how the gloves robbed him of touch sense and prevented him from feeling the texture of what he was holding. He should cut the fingers off them.

He gave one slice of fruit to Fenris and put one in his own mouth. "I'm here to ask for your help."

"Mount it, Hawke." Aveline immediately burst out. "You don't get to call favors from me anymore, and I will suffer no threats."

Damian chewed on his apple, enjoying the mildly sour taste. He observed husband and wife cautiously. Their reaction was about as hostile as he had anticipated, yet more unwelcoming than he had hoped. "I didn't say I was the one who needed help. I'm asking on Fenris' behalf." He looked at the elf next to him, then raised his eyes to meet Aveline's disapproving gaze. "And Carver's."

He could see that Aveline would love to throw him out of her home but could not bring herself to do so now he had raised the stakes by naming two of her old friends. "This better be worth it," she relented. "Because if it isn't..."

"Then unspoken threats at the last moment won't make my reasons any better, will they?" Damian shot back. He was nervous. He had not expected to be, had not counted on his heart to speed up quite this much under the hard looks of the person he once considered dearest friend, but he was. Facing Aveline's scorn was harder than he wanted to admit.

Briefly he summarized what he had heard about Corypheus, the suspicious behavior of the Grey Wardens and his fears of a connection between the two. Aveline sat back down during his story, which Damian considered a good sign.

"Carver has been sent to a remote outpost," he concluded his explanation. "Hopefully that will buy us some time, but if we want to ensure that monster doesn't screw up his mind at some point, Corypheus has to die. I need to join up with the Inquisition to achieve that as fast as possible."

"Sounds like you're overestimating your usefulness there," Donnic pointed out. He was the only one who had remained standing. "From what I hear, the Inquisition's forces grow with each day. Yet one blood mage will bring us victory against the darkspawn magister? Apparently you failed last time."

Damian handed Fenris the last piece of apple and put his knife on the table. "I never claimed I will single-handedly defeat Corypheus, but I did fight him before. Maybe that experience can amount to something. The Inquisition has asked for my help and I will do whatever I can to keep my brother safe. And as for what one mage can do... did you forget the war that started here?" He turned to Aveline as a sign he would not respond to more of Donnic's needling.

"That leaves Fenris," he said to her. "I can't bring him with me in the field to fight, and I cannot leave him in a fortress with strange soldiers. The stress would be too much for him and I don't want him to get hurt. He needs a place to stay. A stable place, with someone who will take care of him."

The actual question was left unspoken, the request clear without additional words devoted to it. Aveline massaged her forehead while she thought what Hawke had told her over. "Let me get this straight," she said slowly. "You beat up my husband and barge into my home to ask the very thing that made you treat as us enemies before?"

After escaping from Tevinter, Donnic had insisted Fenris would stay with Aveline and him instead of Damian because he did not trust the mage's intentions. Fearing a confrontation in which Merrill and Varric sided with Donnic and Aveline, Damian had warned her that he was prepared to kill Donnic if an attempt was made to take Fenris away from him. When the time had come to part ways, Aveline had not supported her husband, either because of the threat or because she felt she owed Hawke one last thing for the time he and his family had saved her from the darkspawn overrunning Lothering. Donnic had been furious and close to giving up on their marriage because of it.

"The beating was an accident," Damian corrected. "He didn't want to let me in."

"Which doesn't change what I said and just means I can add burglary to the list."

"If you want to see it that way," he eventually admitted.

"Is there another way to see it?"

"Look, I wouldn't be here if I had a choice," Damian snapped. "You can stay mad at me, hate me with a burning passion, that's fine. You can even pray that I won't return," he glanced at Donnic. "But you better pray that I take Corypheus down with me, because Carver's life is on the line too. This is about what is best for him and Fenris, not me. So can Fenris stay with you or not?"

The Captain of the Guard exchanged a look with her husband. Both looked grim, but Damian did not miss the small nod Donnic gave. "You are out of your mind, Hawke. But Fenris can stay," Aveline agreed. "I won't see him harmed further."

Damian leaned back. _That was... easy._ Barring the silent accusation lurking behind "harmed further", as if he was guilty of old harm, old pain.

"For Fenris and Carver," Aveline repeated. "Not you."

"I know." He cleared his throat, act of dismissive confidence slipping. He tried to sort through everything he had learned about living with Fenris, how to keep the elf calm and how best to handle him when things went wrong. Rules, exceptions, assumptions, they tumbled through his head, too numerous to share them all. He grasped some of the most important ones. "Treat him well. Do not affirm his beliefs about slavery but don't straight-up contradict them either. You have to be careful, because he doesn't always act submissive. If he is being pushed or otherwise gets upset, he can become aggressive. Maybe you remember how he acted when we wanted to leave the ritual chamber. It's like that, but he can outright attack you as well."

"Maybe we should chain him up." Donnic's snide remark cut through the room.

Jaw set, Damian gave the guard a cold look before continuing. "It shouldn't happen often, but you have to be mindful of that." His eyes dropped to the table's surface. "You... uhm... you should also know that he's been experiencing... lucid periods. Moments his mind clears and he remembers who he is. They've been getting more frequent."

"What?" Aveline leaned forward, revealing nightgown momentarily forgotten. "Are you saying he could be getting better? That's wonderful!"

Damian bit his lip and nodded. He grabbed Fenris' pack, rummaged through it and dug up the calendar. "I've marked them on here," he said, giving it to Aveline. "He's been improving before we left, but I have no idea how much progress he will continue to make."

He paused while Aveline flipped through the pages. "He will probably make it clear when he's lucid," he then went on. "It's hard to miss. Just... ask him a couple of questions – simple things like whether he knows where he is, what year it is, how long he's been here – to test his memory and then write it down to keep track. It differs how well his memory functions and how much he remembers of the previous time."

Damian waited for Aveline to put the calendar down and look at him. "This is why I don't want you to play along with his subservient attitude," he told her. " Fenris' mind needs to be stimulated. He shouldn't be pushed further into the belief that he's a slave. If he addresses you as master, don't argue about it but tell him to call you by your name. Don't give him orders."

"Understood. Anything else?" Her face softened when she looked at Fenris.

Damian rose from his seat, taking a heavy purse from his pocket and dropped it on the table. Nearly all the coin he owned.

Following Damian's example, Fenris hastily got to his feet as well. The exchange of coin seemed to alarm him.

Aveline stared at the bulging pouch before looking up at Hawke. "Unless you filled it with coppers, that's far too much."

"No, it's not." The mage grabbed his staff. " Fenris deserves it. I don't need much, and I don't know how long it will take me to return."

_Time to go._ Heart heavy, Damian ran a hand through his hair and stared at the elf he still loved more than anything. "I have to go," he said softly. He longed to pull the other man into an embrace but did not dare to. Not with Aveline and Donnic standing there with bitter mistrust and anger in their eyes and Fenris looking on the brink of panic. "Aveline and Donnic will take good care of you."

"Master, please." Fenris danced a step back when Damian tried to walk past him. "Please don't sell me. I will serve you better. Tell me how to please you. I will be a good slave, Master." That Damian should have been the one to receive coin if this scenario were true appeared to have escaped him. All Fenris knew was that he was being left behind.

"I will come back, Fenris," Damian vowed, voice tight. "I promise. Nothing will keep me away from you. This is only temporary, over before you know it. You... you won't even remember I've been gone. It's going to be fine."

"No, no, please. Master, don't leave me. I'm yours, Master."

Damian's stomach turned, but he could not back out now, no matter how much he would wish it. "I need to go."

He quickly moved around Fenris and fled out of the kitchen. Behind him he could hear the elf's protests, followed by the sounds of a struggle. In any other situation Donnic's muffled "oomph" could have counted as amusing.

The sky was a dull grey. No rain, no storm and no sun. The charge in the air teased Damian's skin. The magic in his blood sung. His heart wept.

But the Inquisition waited and he had a long way ahead of him. _Corypheus will pay._

With determined steps he returned to the Hanged Man to pick up Willem.


	6. Chapter 6

There used to be a time, not that long ago really, when Fenris believed nothing could be more terrifying than waking up in a strange, dimly lit room without windows, his body in agony from head to toe, with no idea how he got there, where and even _who_ he was, pain his only memory and company. Once, he had thought fate's cruelest joke was granting him overwhelming access to memories of his life before the ritual when he lay with Hawke, only to have that part of him ripped back into amnesia's oblivion moments later. He used to be convinced that nothing, no matter how big the disaster, would be worse than losing Hawke and having to live without him.

As it turned out, he had simply been lacking imagination.

It was far more terrifying, far more cruel to lose himself, all of himself, over and over again without warning. To remember nothing except that he forgot and would forget again. Not knowing how much time had passed, what he had done yesterday or was going to do tomorrow. He was like a drowning man at sea, kicking and splashing to keep his head above the waves and when air filled his lungs and clarity washed over his mind, he had no idea how long he had been under and when he would threaten to sink again.

Fenris did not know where he was. He did not recognize the house he was in, had no memory of arriving here. All he knew was that it was not the isolated shack somewhere in Nevarra he and Hawke had lived for the past... was it a year? Two years?

Had Hawke relocated them? He must have, because otherwise Fenris would not be here, but he did not remember the mage ever bringing up such plans. Which was not exactly saying much, given the pitiable state of his memory, but having no recollection at all of moving?

Panic began to uncoil in the pit of his stomach, cursed, paralyzing weakness threatening to overtake body and mind. Where was he? How and when had he gotten here? Where was Hawke? Fenris forced his breathing to slow, to keep the rhythm of inhaling and exhaling in check. He should avoid becoming too anxious, had to keep a lock on his fear. It would pull him under if he let it control him. Hawke had told him that strong emotions tended to make him lapse. Remaining calm was key. Fenris looked around the room again – it appeared to be a living room, with a comfortable couch and two armchairs in cream color positioned near a burning hearth – and made his way to one of the windows.

It was already getting dark outside. Through the thick glass he saw people walking through a street paved with light grey stones, past tall buildings and columns enwrapped by green ivy. A city. Hawke had brought them to a city? Fenris had hardly cared for their time in the dirt of a forest, but to suddenly find himself back in such a densely populated area made him feel ill at ease. He was not quick to trust, and now he could not trust himself – his own mind – to stay alert and reliable, the presence of so many strangers nearby, ready to notice every moment of weakness and vulnerability, was unnerving.

His breath fogged the glass and he wiped it clean. This place... there was something familiar about it. He did not remember the particular street he had a view of, but the stones used for the pavement, the style of the buildings... He recognized it, or thought he did.

Fenris reached for the windowsill, grabbing and leaning onto it. _Focus,_ he told himself. He sifted through his mind for his last coherent memory. Still in Nevarra, that one. And then... the spray of water, rain. A boat? A ship? Perhaps a road too, but he had travelled so many roads in his life that he was not certain whether the image was recent.

The sound of footsteps alerted him to the presence of someone else in the house. _That must be Hawke._ Turning his back on the window, Fenris followed the noise and left the living room behind. He went right, through a dim hallway, and entered the next room, which turned out to contain a kitchen and dining area.

Hawke was not there.

Instead Fenris found himself staring at a woman with ginger hair and a chin like an anvil, dragging a chair back and sitting down at the kitchen table, behind a stack of documents. She started when she noticed him standing in the door opening, her gentle green eyes widening in surprise above freckled cheeks.

"Fenris! I didn't hear you come in. Everything alright?" She said it with a smile, but he recognized the caution in her voice, on her face. Not stemming from fear, just... as if she was dealing with a skittish animal, believed him ready to bolt at any moment.

He knew this woman. Just like he knew this city. And the combination of the two, the muscular woman in this city, _her_ city, made sense, so it had to be true, but at the same time it was strange, not anticipated.

"Aveline." Fenris remained where he was, on the threshold. "Are we... in Kirkwall?"

It had to be. But where was _here_, this room, this house? It was not Hawke's old estate, nor the decrepit, "rightfully stolen" mansion he used to squat in, he was certain of that. Aveline's presence suggested this was her home. Fenris had visited her and Donnic a couple of times over the years, but not often. Not frequently enough to instantly recognize it with his battered memory.

Aveline's reaction was not the simple answer he had anticipated. Rather than confirming his suspicion, she hastily got to her feet and rushed toward him. Her chair almost toppled over because of the abruptness of her movements. "Fenris? Is that– Are you... you?"

_She knows._ Of course she knew. He had no clear recollection of how or when he got here, so he must have been _confused_ upon arrival. Cold shame spread through him, heating up upon reaching his cheeks.

Why had Hawke brought them here? Fenris had never overly concerned himself with what others thought of him, the extra stares his strange, marked appearance earned him when passing by easy to ignore. But now he felt himself bothered by the notion that old associates, people who had only ever known him as a free man, had seen him like he was now. Weak. Damaged. A broken slave.

It was bad enough that Hawke got to see him that way, that he had to rely on Hawke to take care of him and keep him safe. But Fenris would rather have it be Hawke than anyone else. Against better judgment. Despite the lack of choice to begin with.

The shame twisted inside him, threatening to overpower. _Focus. It's too late to change now._ "Were you expecting me to be anyone else?"

"No, of course not. Or maybe I did. You are aware of condition, right?" When Fenris nodded, Aveline smiled. "I can't believe you are healing. Hawke did mention it, but it's good to actually see you like... yourself. How are you feeling?"

He shifted his weight and tried to resist the tendency to fidget. "I am well, thank you. I... This is Kirkwall, correct?"

"Yes, it is," she confirmed. "I'm sorry, I should have answered you right away. I take it this means you don't remember arriving here? Oh, which reminds me..." She quickly went back to the table and dug through the pile of parchment. The sincere enthusiasm of her reaction was heartwarming, but Fenris felt his unrest grow when she held up a familiar calendar. "Let's see... you know where we are, and who I am. Do you remember what year it is?"

If she was the one doing this, asking these wretched, bothersome questions... "Where's Hawke?"

Fenris hated himself for asking, hated the vulnerability in the question despite his intent to sound disinterested. He sounded like a child desperate to cling to its mother's skirts. A slave in search of his master. The bitterness of the thought coated his tongue.

It should not have been one of the first questions to ask, should not even have been a concern. But in this past period of forgetting and remembering, of losing and finding himself, of confusion, inconsistency and change, Hawke had been a constant. The only constant, now Fenris suddenly found himself relocated to Kirkwall.

Well in the past were the days that he held the belief that nothing could be worse than living without Hawke, and yet the human was one of the first things on Fenris' mind when it became his own again.

Instead of losing Hawke in one of the many ways he could have thought of – a fatal injury in battle, incurable sickness, or Hawke simply having had enough and leaving – the mage had turned to betrayal and become what Fenris feared and despised most. It had seemed impossible, contemplating the faintest possibility of it an insult to the mage who had helped him regain freedom and offered trust and love like it was the most natural, normal thing in the world to offer your heart to a haunted escaped slave who could rip it out in the blink of an eye.

"He said he intended to join the Inquisition to fight Corypheus." Aveline paid close attention to his expression while she spoke. "He left immediately after bringing you here. I assume he is still on his way to the Inquisition's headquarters."

"He... left me here?" Fenris reached for the bridge of his nose to pinch it, knowing he was failing to fully hide his surprise and – _curse him_ – something bordering awfully close on hurt.

Hawke had been constant, had simply been _there_. Despite having lost him, despite Fenris having been lost to him for... how long? Surely two years already– Hawke was taking care of him. Or used to. A tangle of guilt, broken trust, affection and promises had always kept the man near. Fenris knew it should not come as a surprise that this had changed, that Hawke had suddenly decided to forget about his vow, and yet it was unexpected, did not seem like Hawke.

_Ever the fool._ Why would he still expect differently from a mage?

No, not just a mage. A maleficar. A blood mage. Those were beyond hope and redemption. They had embraced the corruption within themselves and travelled down that dark path which allowed no return. Of course Hawke was no exception. So he had dropped Fenris off at Aveline's house and immediately moved on, old debts and promises be damned.

"He wasn't eager to, Fenris." Aveline looked like she would rather not say this but felt obligated to nonetheless. "If it wasn't for Carver, I don't think Hawke would have left."

"Carver? Have the Wardens allied themselves with the Inquisition as well?"

"Quite the opposite really, or that's what Hawke feared. Apparently Corypheus is behind the Breach and attacks on Haven. He might try to control the Wardens without their knowledge, so Hawke wanted to join the fight and end the threat before Carver falls prey to it."

"Corypheus?"

Aveline cocked her head. "He was that ancient darkspawn creature trapped in an old Warden prison in the Vimmark Mountains. You were there with Hawke after the Carta had attacked both Hawke and Carver. Do you remember– "

"Of course I remember," Fenris snapped, startling the both of them. After a moment of staring at one another, he rubbed his neck embarrassedly. "I'm sorry. That was unworthy of me. I remember the prison and that darkspawn mage, but I thought he was dead."

"Somehow he survived. I didn't get much more of an explanation either." She studied Fenris intently for a moment, no doubt his conflicting reactions to Hawke's absence not having escaped her. "Hawke didn't tell you any of this?"

"If he did, I have no memory of it," he replied. He tried to revisit that last clear memory again to be sure, check for a clue, but drew a blank. He thought he recalled Hawke acting a little odd but there had been no explanation, no announcement of plans. There had been the letter from Carver Fenris had read before that, the mention of suspicious behavior within the Order, which seemed to match with the reason given for Hawke's departure, but nothing else.

Hawke running off to protect what was left of his family made sense. How could he not? Fenris shoved the more sympathetic thought away as soon as it dared to surface. If that were the sole reason after all, then why had Hawke not simply said so? Or had he done just that and had Fenris forgotten? Cursed uncertainty gnawed at his insides. He hated not knowing, not being able to trust his own interpretations and memories. "How long have I been... when did I get here?"

"Four days ago."

Four days. He had been here for over half a week already, acting like a stupid, submissive slave with no will of his own. He looked away. "I do not wish to burden you, Aveline. I'm..."

"Don't worry about it, Fenris." Aveline smiled encouragingly when he raised his eyes to her face again. "Donnic and I are happy to help. He only just left for the barracks – he's taken the night shift for now. He'll be pleased to hear you became lucid."

For him. They had to adjust their lives for him. One went to work while the other stayed home, to keep an eye on him. Fenris swallowed to relieve his tightening throat. "I will find a way to repay you, I swear it."

"There's no need for that. You're a dear friend, and I will hear no more of debts, burdens or payment. Understood? Just focus on getting well again. That's enough."

Fenris gave a tentative smile of his own. "Thank you."

"Let me know if you need anything."

Aveline's kindness was humbling, overwhelming even. He was not used to asking for help, let alone having it offered unrequested. This went far beyond a simple favor. That Aveline and Donnic were willing to make such a sacrifice for him left Fenris without words. He would make the most of their offer, ensure it was not for naught. Whatever he could do to speed his recovery and work towards independence, he was going to do it.

More strengthened in his determination to get back to who and what he should be than ever before, Fenris ran a hand through his hair. He was no demented slave, and he would not have Aveline and Donnic bend their lives to his sorry condition a moment longer than necessary.

"I would like to train, if you don't mind."


	7. Chapter 7

Hawke was forced to admit that he would have had a lot more trouble reaching Skyhold without Willem to guide him. The Frostback Mountains were treacherous territory, lacking anything remotely resembling roads, but the messenger knew the safest route around all the traps designed by nature. Thanks to him, the biggest danger they were in was being blinded by the combination of sun and snow and they both wore a scrap of fabric over their eyes to prevent that.

On his own Damian would have struggled to find his way on the icy slopes. That was, if he could have avoided getting caught in an avalanche or losing his footing to slide down the nearest cliff. Travelers between Ferelden and Orlais generally stuck with Gherlen's Pass to cross the mountain range. There was little reason to brave the peaks and slopes – a dangerous ordeal even at the most forgiving time of year. Which was no doubt exactly why the Inquisition had decided to establish their base of operations there. If not for Willem, the greatest obstacle Hawke would have posed to Corypheus was the magister tripping over his corpse on the way to Skyhold.

It was difficult to imagine anyone could live here in this unforgiving, almost cruel landscape. Yet Hawke had heard the stories about the Avvar who had apparently managed to tame the mountains, or at least found a way to live in harmony on the cold stone. He did not doubt their existence though. Most of the journey he had the lingering sense they were being watched without ever being able to discover the culpable pair of eyes. If he had not known about the tribes he would have believed Fenris' old paranoia had finally rubbed off on him.

Fenris... Despite his efforts not to think too much about the elf, he was rarely absent from Damian's mind. He knew Aveline would take care of Fenris, knew Fenris was safe and sound, but it was hard not to worry, not to wonder. Trudging through this harsh, inhospitable landscape it was clear that leaving Fenris behind had been the right decision. The hours of climbing and descending combined with the freezing cold air which seemed barely able to fill their lungs would have been hard to bear for him. The right decision, the only way... and yet Damian's first thought in the morning was of Fenris and how today was going to be before he remembered they were miles apart, separated by a sea.

Skyhold looked like someone had taken in the sight of Kirkwall, guarded by steep cliffs on the sides and Sundermount looming in the background, thought "I can do better than that" and proceeded to build a fortress between Frostback's many mountain peaks. If travelers expected a warm welcome upon finally laying eyes on the keep, it was only because everything else around here was so bloody cold, Damian thought drily. Personally he was only looking forward to getting inside because the icy wind made his ears feel like they were about to fall off his head.

Damian was not immediately brought to the Inquisitor like he had expected. Instead he quickly noticed Willem taking the quieter routes through the fortress, which kept them out of sight for the most part. "Are we supposed to be hiding?"he asked Willem with some apprehension. "I thought my presence was requested."

Willem increased his pace and started to walk closer to the wall on his left to create more distance between them. "My instructions came from Varric. He wanted me to avoid drawing attention to your arrival and bring you to him first."

Damian was close to asking why but ultimately decided it was better to save this question for Varric. Willem was unlikely to know the answer and scaring the boy had lost what little entertainment value it used to have a while ago. So Hawke stayed quiet and followed his guide.

Varric was sitting behind a desk in his room, busy writing letters or his next bestselling novel. A broad grin appeared on his face when Willem and Hawke walked in. "Hawke! I figured you'd show up one of these days. You sure took your sweet time." He dropped the quill and walked towards them. "I've been sitting here for days and had to cancel on a planned expedition with the Inquisitor. Everyone thinks I must be sick."

"I'm surprised you were so convinced I'd come," Damian said with an arched brow. "Am I to assume you've been spying on me?"

Varric snickered, a warm, pleasant sound. "You didn't notice the group of urchins following you?" He wiped his ink-stained fingers on his chest. "I wasn't sure you'd come when I wrote you, but when a letter arrived for you recently, I assumed that meant you were on your way here."

"A letter? For me? Here?" Damian's stomach leapt. Could Fenris have written him after he had left Kirkwall? It seemed too good to be true, but who else would know to contact him here? Who else would care to write him in the first place? The thought that Fenris could actually be thinking of him made the weariness from the long journey dissolve.

"Yes to all three." Amused by Damian's poorly concealed excitement, Varric picked a sealed envelope from a neat pile on his desk and handed it to him.

One glance sufficed to tell Damian that the letter had not been written by Fenris. The handwriting did not look familiar at all, and after months of reading and writing lessons Damian knew Fenris' writing as well as his own. Trying to ignore the sting of disappointment, he opened the envelope and studied the message it contained. "It's from Stroud," he told Varric while scanning the lines, forehead creasing. "I warned him and Carver about Corypheus after I received your letter. He would contact the other Wardens and see if he could learn anything useful."

"He's found something already then? That was fast."

"Not exactly." Damian scratched his chin through his beard. Stroud's letter was little more than a note. "He just says he is heading for a cave near Crestwood and that I should meet him there when I can." No explanation given. No word about Corypheus or how the meeting with the Warden-Commander had gone. Only instructions about how to get to the cave. And one word which said it all: _hiding_. Something must have gone wrong.

"I need to take this to the Inquisitor."

"In a minute, Hawke. She returned to Skyhold today and is sitting on her throne judging people – you know, the shit important people need to deal with. I'm hoping to introduce you after that." Varric waved at Willem, who was still lurking in the doorway. "Thanks, kid. Good job. I'm sure you'd like to get a little rest now." He dug through the pockets of his trousers. When he showed his hand again the glimmer of gold shone between his thick, stubby fingers. He tossed the coin to the messenger, who deftly caught it. "Here, a little extra. For your discretion." He gave a playful wink.

Willem nodded with a smile. "Thank you, Serah." He briefly looked at Hawke before nodding and closing the door.

Damian folded his arms and tilted his head to the side. "Why are you bribing the messenger who brought me here?"

"I wasn't bribing him! I was just being my usual, kind, generous self."

"Right. So what is he supposed to be discrete about?"

Varric tried to clean smudges of ink off his chest hair. "Hawke, you wound me. How did you get so suspicious?"

"Probably because every person who's said more than two words to me has lied to me at some point," Damian replied impatiently. "Including you."

"I prefer "deliver a superior version of the truth"." After a last, disappointed look at his chest, the rogue gave up his futile cleaning attempts. "It's nothing to worry about, I can assure you. I just want to make sure your arrival will stay a surprise until you can meet our dear Inquisitor."

Damian gave him a puzzled look. "The Inquisition asked for my help. Me coming here can't be that unexpected."

"Ah. You see, there's this thing called "assumptions", and–"

"Just spit it out, Varric," Damian interrupted with a sigh. He was lacking the patience for the dwarf's word games and riddles.

Varric spread his hands, a gesture of surrender. "Alright, alright. It's really no big deal. But if you're the type of person who cares a lot about insignificant details..." Seeing the look on Hawke's face, he cleared his throat. "Well, in that case it should probably be noted that I'm the one who invited you. And so far I may have neglected to mention that to anyone else. You know, to avoid creating false expectations."

Damian's arms dropped to his sides. "They didn't even know I was supposed to be coming? Then why did you– I thought you were asking on behalf of the Inquisition!"

"I was! And they will be thrilled to have you here, believe me."

"I'm a blood mage, Varric. If they don't trust me right away and enforce an investigation..." He did not finish his sentence, not certain what the Inquisition would do with random maleficarum walking into their stronghold but knowing that it could not be pleasant.

"Hawke, relax." Varric sounded very much like he was trying to calm a hysterical noblewoman, which was rewarded by a scowl from Damian. "I'm no expert in weird mage shit, but if there was a foolproof method to identify blood mages I'm sure Meredith would have been the first to use it. Would have saved us a lot of trouble too. But even if there was, there's still nothing to worry about, because the Inquisition knows who you are and will accept your help."

"There are the scars on my arm and hand for one... I doubt I can blame those on my nonexistent cat. But if you're so sure there won't be a problem, why didn't you tell anyone you contacted me and why is my arrival supposed to remain a surprise for as long as possible?"

The dwarven storyteller sighed and scratched his square jaw, leaving more smudges of ink. "Look, do you remember the Seeker who kidnapped and interrogated me in Kirkwall and who "convinced" me to tell my version of what happened at the peace conference?" When Damian nodded, he continued: "Well, she's here too and when she finds out I lied to her about not knowing where you were, she is going to be pissed. I honestly wasn't sure you'd come after that whole business with Elf and I wasn't going to risk my neck just for you to not show up."

"I..." Damian rubbed the back of his head. For the journey he had tied his hair in the usual old braid to limit the need for upkeep and keep it out of the way. "I guess that's fair. I'm sorry, I know you took a risk by lying to the Seekers and the Chantry for me."

"Don't mention it." Varric went back to feigning modesty. "I managed to sell you pretty well to her so hopefully your presence will make Seeker forget how angry she wants to be. Ah, which reminds me. I got something for you. Come, you can leave your stuff here."

Damian gave him a quizzical look but let his bag slide down his shoulder and dropped it on the floor to follow Varric, who was already heading for the door. "Is this going to help me defeat this mighty Seeker woman you're so afraid of?"

"Hey now, the only woman this dwarf has learned to fear is Bianca. The rest is just a healthy sense of self-preservation."

Hawke was again guided through corridors and hallways away from the busiest parts of Skyhold. He did not like the keep, grand as it was. Despite the two looking nothing alike, the vast halls and high ceilings reminded him too much of the mansion in Minrathous. Too much cold stone.

Eventually he found himself back outside, in Skyhold's courtyard. He raised another eyebrow at Varric, but the dwarf happily ignored the wordless inquiry and kept walking. There was plenty of activity but nobody paid close attention to the two of them. Damian realized nobody here would have a clue who he was and chances of being recognized were slim anyway. Only the staff on his back could give cause to suspect he was more than a regular worker.

Varric led him into a small shack near the fortress' outer wall, heated by a burning forge in the center. Even without this dead-giveaway regarding their location, the sound of metal being hammered into shape and the smell of hot steel, burning coals, leather and human sweat made it clear.

While the dwarf greeted the blacksmith, Damian looked around, confused as to why he was brought here of all places. The only times he had walked into a smithy were when one of his companions announced they needed equipment purchased or repaired.

His confusion only grew when the smith removed a brown, leather cloth from a mannequin tucked away in a corner after an inquiry from Varric. "So what's this supposed to be?"

"These," Varric announced with pride, "are the Robes of the Champion."

When this was only met with unimpressed silence, he added: "Go on, try them on. Smithy here needs to see if they fit."

Damian stared at the outfit draped over the straw figure. Dark grey woolen trousers and a shirt with a thick fur collar, held together around the waist by a broad leather belt with a large clasp. He would not have minded if that were all there was to it, but the clothing was adorned with armor pieces made of iron: a large neckpiece, plating to protect the right arm with some particularly dangerous-looking spikes on the elbow piece, gauntlets which reminded him very much of the ones Fenris used to wear, and to compliment it all there was a pair of greaves– again looking dangerously sharp around the edges – reaching till over the knee.

Many questions came to mind, but Damian went with what seemed the most important one. "Why?"

"As Champion you need to look the part, don't you? The mages here are big on fashion, so I didn't want you to feel left out – well, there's Chuckles, but elves seem to get away with poor wardrobe decisions. You're supposed to be a hero. Heroes don't walk around like they just came stumbling out of the wilderness."

"I _did_ just stumble out of the wilderness."

"Doesn't mean you have to look like it."

"I'm not wearing that."

Varric looked like he was completely baffled by this refusal, which Damian believed was sure to be an act. "Come on, Hawke. This is what you wore when you defeated the crazed Knight-Commander and defended the Circle of Kirkwall!"

Damian cast another look at the mannequin. "No... No, I'm fairly certain I did not."

""Tale of the Champion" seems to disagree."

"That's a book. Which you made up." He could not stop staring at the horrible thing. No doubt it would feel even more uncomfortable than it looked. "So this spiky monstrosity is the product of your imagination," Damian said flatly. "If I fall down while wearing this, I will die."

"You've fallen from a lot of stairs lately, grandpa?"

"There weren't any stairs in the wilderness, so no. But they do have them here."

"Just wear the damn thing, Hawke," Varric pestered. "Remember that time I tracked a certain dwarf who was very good with enchantments in Orlais and brought him all the way to Tevinter?"

"You're using _that_ to convince me to dress up?!" The exclamation was followed by a defeated sigh. If Varric brought out the heavy-hitting stuff of how he had found Sandal in time to save Fenris' life, there was no way he could still say no. "Fine, fine. Though I'd have expected you to use that kind of force for something more important than making me look like an idiot." With more than a little bit of reluctance he began to pry the armor set off the mannequin.

"I talked you up quite a bit with the Seeker and if she is going to be disappointed by your inferior appearance I am in even deeper shit, so you're going to impress her and take the heat off of me." Varric actually managed to sound strict.

"Why do you suddenly remind me an awful lot of Uncle Gamlen?" Damian muttered while stripping his outer layer of clothing. "That's what you get with your "superior version of the truth". Reality will turn out to be inferior."

He successfully put on the "Robes of the Champion" without sustaining lethal injury. As expected, the iron parts made the whole thing considerably heavier than anything Damian had ever worn. It also did not come as a surprise that it was impossible to fit in the left gauntlet. Shopping for gloves in Caimen Brea had already introduced him to the problem of requiring two different sizes, but the metal ensured the gauntlet would never slide over his permanently bent fingers. So instead he kept the – now fingerless – glove on his left hand and tied a piece of fabric around his arm to hide the rest of the scars visible there.

For reasons still not understood by Damian, Varric appeared pleased with the result and declared him worthy of meeting with the Inquisitor.

* * *

The Inquisitor turned out to be a blunt, direct dwarf with the kind of hard look in her eyes Damian recognized from his dealings with the Carta. She listened to and seemed interested in what Hawke had to say but refrained from making any solid plans or promises. They would head to Crestwood and check the lead when she had time.

Though he was eager to find out what Stroud had encountered, Damian thought better of arguing about this. Trying his luck and the Inquisitor's patience so early seemed an unwise move, considering the track record of said luck. He had already moved the situation along as far as he could by making it sound like Stroud was currently waiting for them in the smuggler's cave instead of likely still being on his way. The sooner they acted, the better.

The way down from the battlements and back into the fortress was spent getting used to walking in boots weighing like bricks and – to Damian's ears – making the sound of someone constantly and consistently banging a pan against the stone floor. Varric helpfully distracted him, quite possibly to stop Hawke from continuing to complain.

"So, how's Elf?"

"He's doing well, considering," Damian replied while nearly tripping over a threshold. "He's with Aveline till this mess has been dealt with."

"Really?" The dwarf let out an amused snort. "And she didn't knock you on your ass as soon as she saw you? How'd you manage that?"

"Donnic seemed the most eager to do that, plus stab me afterwards... But as it turns out Aveline cares more for Fenris and Carver than she hates me, so it was actually surprisingly easy."

"Huh." Varric took a moment to contemplate that – and likely form a "superior" scene of how that encounter had gone down – before speaking up again. "You think he's going to... oh, nug shit. Got to go, Hawke!"

Stunned, Damian looked around for possible reasons why Varric so suddenly made a sharp turn, retreated on his steps and disappeared around a corner. All he saw were two figures walking through the hallway in the opposite direction he and Varric had been going. As they came closer he recognized Cullen in the dark-blonde man, but the woman next to the former Templar did not look familiar. If Damian had not just met the Inquisitor though, he would have assumed this was she. She walked with the strides of a warrior, a fighter, and had the posture of someone used to issuing commands.

A little hesitantly he stayed where he was and waited for them to approach. Running into a Templar, even a former one, was not something Damian had taken into account when deciding to travel to the Inquisition, especially on his first day. The raven-haired woman could be a Templar too, but Varric's hasty departure made another suspicion creep up.

"Champion? What brings you here?" Cullen's surprise was clearly visible. Damian thought he detected a glimmer of amusement as well when the man's eyes went over the uncomfortable armor set Varric had forced on him, but perhaps that was merely a reflection of his own perception that he looked like a fool... a mage halfheartedly dressing up as a warrior.

"Cullen." Damian gave a polite nod to both him and the unknown woman. "I only arrived today. I will be joining the Inquisition in the fight against Corypheus. And just call me Hawke. We have been acquainted long enough."

The woman spoke up before he could ask for a formal introduction. "You are... Serah Hawke? The Champion of Kirkwall?"

Her sharp, inquisitive gaze seemed to pin him in his place. He no longer needed an introduction to be certain who this was. "I am."

The confirmation earned him another look up and down, but unlike with Cullen, Damian did not notice anything hinting at amusement. Just surprise, a hint of frustration and... curiosity? Admiration?

She stretched out her right hand. "Cassandra Penthagast, Seeker of Truth and Right Hand of the Divine. Or that's what I used to be, I suppose. I now serve the Inquisition."

_And the reason for Varric rushing away to hide. _This had to be the Seeker who had interrogated the dwarf because she was looking for Damian's location. _How nice of him to leave me to fend for myself in this. _Damian took the offered hand and shook it. He was fairly certain he accidentally scratched her with his gauntlet while doing so. "Damian Hawke."

She smiled a slightly tense smile. "If I may ask... how did you hear about Corypheus and that the Inquisition needed aid?"

"Varric notified me. He sent a messenger to show me the way to Skyhold." _That's for you, you cowardly dwarf. _

Judged by the tensing of Cassandra's strong jaw, this admission was indeed unwelcome. "I see."

Cullen appeared to notice it too, because he was quick to navigate the conversation into safer territory. "Are your associates here as well?"

Sadly Cullen's idea of a safer conversational topic was one Damian would rather avoid. Her practical attitude meant the Inquisitor was not keen on small talk and she had not bothered asking personal questions like why the infamous Champion had suddenly lost all his allies and friends and showed up by himself. He tried to sound nonchalant when he answered, an attitude he – as he now discovered – seemed to have lost mastery of. "I'm afraid I left my private army at home."

The Seeker studied him for a moment with alert eyes. Despite only just having met her and Damian hardly knowing a thing about her, it felt like she knew _him_ awfully well and could see right through him. "I admit, after everything Varric told me I would not have expected you to come alone."

"Varric likes to exaggerate. I don't really have a private army."

"I know that." Cassandra looked a little offended. "I meant... he mentioned Fenris, the elf from Tevinter. I thought..." She seemed uncertain now, not knowing how to finish her sentence while confronted with Hawke's lack of a warm response.

"As you can see, he's not here."

She exchanged a look with Cullen. "I apologize. No doubt Varric told me more than one... inaccuracy. I hope I have not offended."

Damian made half-hearted attempt at a forgiving smile. "It's alright. I think I may be the one who should apologize. I'm afraid the journey here has been rather draining and has not left me at my best."

"Of course."

"No matter the lies the dwarf has fabricated, Hawke still proved invaluable in the fight against Meredith," Cullen added, both hands balancing on the pommel of his sword. "And let's not forget the Qunari. The Inquisition is lucky to count you among its ranks."

The Seeker nodded. It had been a long time since Damian had seen as much admiration directed at him as he was now seeing in Cassandra's eyes. It should not have mattered, or perhaps should be considered a boon. If an influential figure like this Seeker regarded him positively this could only be an advantage, but instead it made him feel weary. Weary and fake.

Even if Varric had told the truth and not an alternate version of their time in Kirkwall, it all seemed so long ago that people's opinion on it hardly mattered. It belonged to a different life, a different age. If Cassandra knew what he had done after leaving Kirkwall, if she knew what he was now, that admiration would quickly turn to disgust, rendering the appreciation of older deeds meaningless.

Cassandra looking him up and down once more took Damian out of his drifting, somber thoughts. "You're taller than I imagined."

He blinked while her cheeks flushed with color and Cullen tried to hide a smile. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I... Varric's description made you seem smaller."

"Did he try to claim I was a dwarf again?"

"No, he did mention you're a mage... I just..." She looked to Cullen for help, but he appeared highly entertained by her awkwardness and offered no way out. Cassandra's cheeks turned even more pink. "I... have a meeting to attend to." She nodded in Damian's direction while Cullen received a glare. "Welcome to the Inquisition, Champion."


	8. Chapter 8

Fenris managed to lean out of the way of the sword swinging at him at the very last moment, causing it to miss his head by a hair's breadth. He raised his own weapon for a counter-attack but was blocked by his opponent's shield before the blow could gain proper momentum. Already Fenris' arms were starting to feel heavy, the two-hander in his hands a seemingly ever-increasing weight. _I'm beginning to tire._

He side-stepped, evading another sword thrust. He was being slow, too slow, so much slower than he used to be. Being agile, staying on the move, was crucial in combat, even more so now he did not have armor he could rely on to deflect and absorb any hits. Everything depended on his own reflexes and skills, which were proving pitifully insufficient for getting the upper hand in this fight. He was unable to break through the other warrior's defense.

The next assault had him backing away, his steps quicker than his muscles could keep up with: he nearly lost his balance and could barely prevent tripping over his feet. He turned his recovery into a low blow aimed at the legs, but again his greatsword did not connect. Before Fenris could react again, the pommel of his opponent's sword struck him against the head, making him to stagger.

"Sorry about that."

He looked up at Donnic, rubbing the sore spot on his head before grimacing and straightening. "Again."

Donnic wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of the hand he was holding his wooden practice sword in. "Are you sure? We've been doing this for quite some time now. Don't you want to get some rest?"

"Not yet." Fenris tested the weight of his own sword. The balance was off and it was heavier and more clumsy to wield because it was made of wood, but it would help him get his strength back. And it meant bruises were the worst he would end up with from all the beatings he received from Donnic.

Donnic groaned at the determination in Fenris' voice. "You know I still need to go to work tonight," the guard said with exasperation. "Fortunately the thugs haven't figured out yet that you are tiring me during the day."

Fenris bared his teeth in a smile while quickly stepping forward and swinging his blade at Donnic. "You could always ask the Captain to change the roster so you can guard the market square."

The dark-haired man hurriedly raised his shield to block the blow. "Guarding the market once was enough," he laughed. "It took forever for my reputation to recover. I fear it won't survive a second time."

Ignoring the ache in his limbs, Fenris struck again. He had fully devoted himself to his training, spending nearly every hour of his lucid moments on it. When Aveline or Donnic could not be convinced to spar with him, Fenris practiced the motions himself against straw dummies, followed Hawke's advice to perform other activities to strengthen his muscles and worked on his endurance by running countless circles around the small courtyard behind the house. Especially the latter was mind-numbingly tedious and he would have preferred to run through the city, but Aveline had advised against this for fear he would drop off sanity's edge along the way. Because he felt no desire to end up as some lowlife's servant Fenris had not argued.

"Did he never let you train?" Donnic asked while countering Fenris' attack.

"Is that supposed to distract me?" Fenris did not need to inquire who the "he" was Donnic was referring to.

"No," Donnic grunted. "Just... showing interest."

_A thrust, then a parry._ Fenris' body remembered the movements, the rhythm of stepping, cutting and dodging formed a dance he was intimately familiar with. Forgetting was not the issue here. Instead it was his own weakness, the loss of power after such a long period of inactivity that was holding him back, weighing him down like sack of boulders. "I started training shortly before I came here," he replied when he could spare the extra breath. "Before that, my... mind usually did not remain my own long enough."

Donnic raised his shield, thrusting his sword underneath it. "Are those your words or his?"

Fenris ground his teeth. Up until now conversations about Hawke had thankfully been scarce, but he could have known Aveline or Donnic would not wait much longer to bring it up again and press on. Fenris did not want to think about it, about _him_, let alone discuss it. Training was what was important now, beating his cursed weakness. "My words are my own."

"You don't think he tried to keep you weakened on purpose?"

Fenris circled Donnic, watching for an opportunity to strike. He was panting, lungs burning for air. He might be weak now, but accepting this weakness was out of the question. Tedious as the exercises were, frustrating as his body's limitations could be, he pushed himself hard as he could. He would not remain weak and vulnerable. As a result he was feeling sore almost permanently, a combination of bruises and fatigue having claimed residence in his bones, wrapped itself around his muscles. Donnic's insistence to suddenly start asking questions was only adding to the overbearing sense of exhaustion. "Is there a point to this line of questioning?"

Donnic shook his head, unsatisfied with Fenris' lack of agreeableness. "You can't think it doesn't matter."

"That what matters? Your unsupported theories on Hawke's motivations?" He dodged a bash from Donnic's shield, albeit not very gracefully. Every fiber in his body appeared to scream in protest, beg for rest. The wooden greatsword felt like it had been crafted out of lead now. Fenris gritted his teeth even more firmly and ignored it all, did his best to push past the barriers of fatigue. It was probably wiser to call an end to the training for the day, but that would leave him with nothing to do. Sparring with Donnic was his preferred way to pass the time because it demanded all of his attention. The more dull, repetitive exercises or the lack of practice altogether made it easy to lose focus, for his mind to drift.

He did not want to lose focus. A wandering mind either meant a slipping hold on his sanity, or the surfacing of thoughts he had no desire to entertain. Thoughts about events and persons Fenris did not want to think about. One person. Donnic was trying to dig into the poorly suppressed mess Hawke had left, but Fenris was not ready yet to try and untangle all the warbled knots. Hawke had left; that was enough for the time being.

Donnic seemed to disagree, however. "They're not unsupported."

Gathering his remaining strength, Fenris mustered a blow mighty enough that Donnic could not risk straight-up blocking it. For a moment it looked like he would be able to overpower the guard, but then his body well and truly let him down. The rapid attack which should have followed the disruption in Donnic's defense failed, Fenris' arm muscles now refusing to cooperate and wield his sword any longer.

"Vishante kaffas!" His strike was too slow, too low, and after parrying it Donnic had an opening to bring his own weapon to Fenris' throat.

"I think that's enough victories for today," the human smiled, trying to alleviate the tension that was advancing on them.

Fenris nodded and let his wooden sword drop. With a grimace he extended and flexed his cramped fingers, trying to conceal the frustration bubbling underneath his skin. It was not losing to Donnic that irritated him. There was no shame in being bested by a superior opponent. The source of his inferiority was another matter, however, stemming from limitations he did not used to have and which were slow to overcome.

His efforts to not betray his thoughts apparently did not fool Donnic. The guardsman shot Fenris a look while pretending to focus on removing his practice shield, then clasped the elf on the shoulder encouragingly. The joviality of the gesture could not conceal the subtle glint of pity in his eyes. "Don't be too hard on yourself. You've made progress. Give it some time and you'll be back to old form before you know it. And besides," He grinned sheepishly and gestured to the bruise on his left cheek. "You got me good last time."

Fenris looked away, his face now warm not just because of the strenuous exercise from moments ago. That bruise had not been the result of a sparring session. Instead he had struck Donnic in one of those fits of mindless rage he apparently could fly into. Till the relocation to Kirkwall he had half-believed that Hawke was exaggerating when the mage referenced those aggressive outbursts. Clearly that was not the case though. It made Fenris wonder how often he had lashed out at Hawke and harmed him without knowing. He did not recall seeing Hawke with similar bruises, but it was possible the mage had healed himself or that Fenris had simply forgotten.

"I am sorry," he said, forcing himself to look Donnic in the eye. "I didn't mean to..."

Donnic's smile faded into embarrassment. Rubbing the back of his head, he made an apologetic face. "No, I'm the one who should apologize. That was a stupid thing to say. Not funny. I'm sorry."

Fenris nodded, bending over to pick up the sword he had dropped. His legs and back made their objections to this motion well known, but he managed to straighten proudly again and – hopefully – make it look more effortless than it felt.

Meanwhile Donnic checked his splintering shield. "Listen," he began, "I know you're not eager to talk about this, but I feel I have to at least bring it up."

"Bring up what exactly?" Fenris asked irritably. "Speculate about what Hawke may or may not have done or tried to do? To what end? He's not even here."

Donnic was looking awfully stubborn and determined. It made Fenris wonder whether this characteristic was standard for southern humans or just the people who happened to be close to him. "He will come back though," Donnic remarked. "No doubt about it."

"And thus you want to convince me that Hawke did not allow me to train? He did. He gave me a sword to practice with, but apparently I broke it." Fenris headed to the chest against the far wall where the practice weapons were stored to put away his sword. Donnic followed.

"Do you hear yourself? You could not continue to train because "apparently" you broke your sword? Do you remember doing it or is that simply what Hawke told you?"

Stuffing the wooden greatsword away, Fenris growled at the back of his throat. "There is no denying that my memory is still unreliable. Am I supposed to see malicious intent behind every event I fail to recall? I do not remember striking you, yet I am not claiming your bruise was caused by something else and that you are simply trying to exploit feelings of guilt."

"Are you actually defending him now? Despite what he is?"

Fenris brusquely took Donnic's weapon and dumped it in the storage chest as well. "I know what he is," he snapped.

Donnic folded his arms in front of his chest. "I'm not sure you do. You didn't see him in Minrathous – or at least you don't remember seeing him. The state he was in when we arrived... I know Hawke used to mean a great deal to you, Fenris, but he is no longer the man who became Champion. He should not be trusted."

Fenris knew there would be no way back if he asked for clarification, but at the same time he could not shut his eyes and cover his ears for potential information Donnic had. The holes in his memory were tremendously frustrating when they swallowed up mundane activities and events. For higher stakes it was simply infuriating. He still had no clear recollection of what had transpired in Tevinter after he had slipped into a coma. Hawke had filled him in on the most important events – or Fenris believed the mage had done so... already the first seed of doubt seemed to have found root in his mind – but it had been an unattractive topic for either of them and he was uncertain whether he remembered everything Hawke told him. And if Hawke had shared everything.

He did not want to think about it all, about the cursed betrayal that had cost him to trust in the one person he had thought he would always be able to rely on. But denial and hiding from the truth would not get him anywhere. If Donnic knew something, Fenris had to hear it. "Just say it then," he sighed. "What was going on when you arrived in Minrathous?"

I assume you've seen scars on his arm and hand at some point?" After a nod from Fenris, the brown-haired man continued: "Those were all open when we found him in the library. It was a mess. He had been casting blood magic for Maker-knows-how-long. I think he was barely aware of what was going on anymore. He seemed confused and did not even know if you were still alive."

There was a pause, likely to invite a reaction from Fenris, but the elf stayed silent. His mind, however, did not. Over the months – perhaps even years – the two of them had lived in Nevarra, Hawke had not actively been hiding his scars as far as Fenris could tell. He had caught glimpses or even a clear view of them more than once. Hawke had a lot of them, all on his lower left arm and hand. To imagine all of those white lines as open, bleeding cuts... His stomach churned at the repulsive thought. If Donnic's description was accurate – and there was little reason to assume it was not – Hawke might have sunk even deeper into the sickening hold of blood magic than Fenris had believed. That the mage he had once admired for his strength and willpower could fall so low... There was no going back from that, could be no going back. Those who went down that dark path were lost. Fenris had seen it before. Greed, lust for wealth, power, knowledge, flesh, survival... the motivation of choosing did not matter. The result was the same, always the same.

Hawke had done it for him...

The corners of Fenris' mouth pulled back in disgust. He would not be held as an excuse for depravity. He had not asked Hawke to turn to the forbidden arts for him, would never have done so. It did not make it right and did not change that Hawke had gone too far. What Donnic had to say did not even matter for that. A maleficar was a maleficar. Trying to justify their actions by dividing their wrongdoings into varying degrees of acceptability was just another step down that damned path.

"Anything else?"

Donnic appeared a little taken aback by Fenris' lack of a visible reaction but did not comment on it. "He was living in a mansion full with slaves treating him as his master, though I suppose you knew that already. You were in bed when we found you, unconscious and severely weakened. Chained to the wall. When Sandal fixed your markings you woke up, did not recognize any of us or remembered what had happened, and called Hawke "Master"." He paused, observing Fenris' face carefully. "I don't know if he did all of it on purpose, but you have to admit how it looks. And I don't think you'd want to take any chances."

Hawke had taken care of him when Fenris had been nigh helpless. Only now Donnic had suggested it, did Fenris realize that he had assumed this had stemmed from old affection, a sense of responsibility, perhaps even pity. To associate dealing with all Fenris' impairments with selfishness and maliciousness had not occurred to him before. It had seemed completely illogical.

Now he was no longer so sure.

Suddenly he was aware of how much he had continued to trust Hawke's word with nothing else to back it up, despite knowing that he should not, despite _believing_ he had not fallen into that trap. Maleficarum could not be trusted, and Hawke was one of them now. Going by Donnic's description, the fallen Champion had even embraced it. And yet Fenris had not subjected Hawke's actions to the amount of scrutiny they deserved. Donnic was right to question the apparent ease with which he had accepted Hawke's claims. Against better judgment, he had continued to see Hawke as... Hawke, the person, the man he had fought beside for nearly a decade, instead of a blood mage. He had allowed feelings which belonged well in the past to cloud his reasoning, had ignored those hard-learned lessons from years of slavery.

A buzzing headache, a pressure building behind his eyes, was rapidly manifesting in his head. The continuous exchange about the knife seemed preposterous now as well. Of course he had always known that his insistence for Hawke to give up his knife was by no means a guarantee the mage could not cast a spell with blood. Looking back, Fenris was uncertain what exactly his reasoning had been. It had felt like an unspoken promise of sorts, an agreement that Hawke would not resort to blood magic and that Fenris, while he had not forgotten what Hawke had become, trusted that no boundaries would be crossed a second time.

Trust. There it was again. He had been forced to rely on Hawke, but reliance did not equal trust. Hawke had shown trust could be broken, so how could Fenris have deluded himself into placing it in the mage again? What proof did he have that Hawke had never repeated his forbidden acts, aside from the foolish belief that he had not? And why? What reason could he summon that Hawke was different? All because of what Fenris _used _to feel for the man.

Ever the fool. Blindly naive he had been. How could he hope to reclaim independence if he took everything a maleficar told him at face value? Even if that maleficar happened to be Hawke. Especially if that maleficar happened to be Hawke. Fenris had thought himself wiser than that, had believed himself far removed from sentimental foolishness. Now he could not begin to understand what had made him so lenient. No questions, minimal mistrust, all because of a love dead and buried. Blind for whatever could lurk amidst the darkness. Like he had been with Danarius.

The headache blew up, his vision blurring around the edges. Someone called out to him.

"Fenris? Fenris, are you feeling alright?"

Fenris looked up at the man next to him. He could no longer remember the dark-haired human's name.


	9. Chapter 9

**Note from the author: that's right. It's an actual, real update. A long one of two chapters even. For whoever is still here after all this time. I am terribly sorry about this insanely long hiatus. Let's say I joined the real world but the real world wasn't playing nice. I graduated and got my Master's degree a while back and finding a job has proven challenging. That pretty much killed most of my motivation for writing. Add to that that writing this chapter was like pulling teeth, and time went by without me getting a lot of words on the page. But occasionally I still received reviews asking me if I could please continue this story and despite the long silence I still can't bring myself to actually give up on Hawke and Fenris. So here we are. Thank you to the people who have reviewed despite the lack of recent updates and who maintained the faint hope that more would come. I hope the size of these two chapters can make up a tiny bit of this stupid hiatus.**

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Chapter 9

Of course it would rain when he finally set foot in Ferelden on his own again, Damian Hawke thought as he trudged through the steadily pouring rain drenching him. Clouds had darkened the sky, giving Lake Calenhad off in the distance a steely shade of grey which was only interrupted by the eerie flashes of green caused by the Veil tear. Crestwood did not look very welcoming.

Upon hearing the dwarven scout's report on the disturbances in the Veil at the bottom of the lake it had been decided that the Inquisitor and a small group of her companions would try to find a way to solve the problem. Hawke was sent ahead to the cave where Stroud should be waiting for them. As a mage he was deemed capable of looking after himself and on his own chances were greater that he would remain unnoticed by whatever hostile entities happened to be roaming the area.

So for the first time in years Damian was actually, truly, on his own, nobody else's presence in the vicinity. No friends, no allies, not even servants. Though to be fair, he did not really have any of those anymore no matter where he was. Varric acted friendly enough - the insistence to don the Robes of the Champion excepted - but it was clear that the true camaraderie between them was a thing of the past. The dwarf was the only one who knew everything Damian had done in Tevinter, to Fenris, and although Varric had never shown outright hostility or expressed disapproval over what Hawke had proven to be capable of, he knew a lot of respect had been lost.

His thoughts returned to Fenris, as they kept doing since he had left the elf in Kirkwall. He hoped Fenris was doing well, that Aveline and Donnic were capable of handling the varying states of his fragile mind, that he was still on the slow path to recovery. So far he had not received any messages from Kirkwall, from Fenris nor Aveline. Not exactly surprising, but part - a large part - of Damian was still disappointed. He missed the elf's quiet company, both the stoic silence he persisted in when he was lucid as well as the timid withdrawal while in the hold of dementia. Selfish, of course, but when Fenris was near he at least knew he would receive all the care and attention he needed. All Damian could hope was that Fenris was doing well and continued to improve. Maybe then...

His musings were unkindly interrupted when the ridiculous point of his right boot got lodged under the root of a tree and made him plummet forward. With the unfamiliar weight of the metal chest piece of armor and his foot firmly stuck he was unable to recover his balance in time and collapsed like a felled tree, face down. Although the muddy, rain-soaked ground absorbed the worst of his fall, Damian was not very grateful for the black muck he landed in.

For a moment he simply remained flat on his stomach, inwardly cursing the rain, the stupid armor, the mud, his presence here and the track to some unknown cave which was sure to be more likely to contain a horde of giant spiders than Stroud. Then he pushed himself up and attempted to get back on his feet. The muddy soil made a wet, sucking sound when he lifted his torso off the ground. The root, however, refused to release his ankle. No matter how hard he jerked and pulled, his foot remained firmly pinned to the ground.

Ready to curse Varric and his "Robes of the Champion" some more - out loud this time -, Damian rolled on his side to look at the root which had managed to trap him.

"Oh, by Andraste's saggy bosom."

Which turned out not to belong to a tree at all. Instead bony fingers with dead, greenish grey skin were wrapped around his ankle. Empty sockets stared back at him from a blackened skull, rotting teeth bared into the unnerving permanent grin of the dead. Most of the decaying body was buried in the ground and hidden from view. In the limited light reaching through the thick layer of stormy clouds it was very easy to miss, which was exactly what he had done - practically walk over the undead monster.

The corpse spread its jaws and produced a hissing sound. Whether it was offended by almost getting stepped on or pleased that a potential victim had wandered within reach, it swung the dull, rusted blade in its other hand, likely with the intent to lop Hawke's leg off. On reflex Damian stretched out a hand to fire a spell in defense, but what should have come naturally, should have flowed from his raised palm as the solidification of willpower, a thought made real, refused to form in that instant. It was there, his magic, that core of mana swirling and waiting to be put to use, but the link from there to the tangible outside world faltered. It was not as easy to access as it should be, as it had once been, as if his mana was buried deeper within and a larger distance had to be crossed to reach it. Buried under that other power, that alternative path to his magic. So much easier, so much more powerful and so much worse.

Whatever the case, the gust of force magic that was supposed to blast the undead back came too late and only managed to push the sweeping attack slightly off course. It was not enough to prevent the sword from connecting. With a clang the weapon struck the metal greave protecting his shin.

Suddenly a lot more grateful for the armor he was wearing, Damian reached for his staff. Annoyed with the disappointing results - or lack thereof - of its attack the undead raised its sword again as Hawke pulled his own weapon from his back. With the focus aid in hand he could immediately feel his mana draw closer to the surface, guided by the magic contained in the staff, but the corpse would manage to injure him before he could cast a spell. So Damian spun the staff and brought it in the path of the blade to block.

Thankfully the weapon of Tevinter make proved sturdy enough to withstand the blow without breaking. Hooking the horizontal blade at the end behind the undead's sword Damian pulled the monster's weapon to the side, simultaneously aiming his staff at the deviously grinning skull. He forced his power through the staff, pushed it out with his will, and this time air compressed to the solidity of a fist slammed into the corpse and sent it flying, bones rattling in decaying joints.

Quickly he scrambled to his knees, then got up. As was to be expected, the undead which had managed to ambush him turned out not to be alone. Drawn to the commotion caused by one of their brethren and the use of magic, more walking corpses appeared in the shadows, armed with either blades or bow. Despite their lack of what could qualify as properly functioning eyes, the demons reanimating their dead hosts seemed perfectly aware of his presence. Eager for a fight they shambled towards Hawke, but now he had sufficient time to ready a spell in defense. Ice shot up from the ground, pinning more than one undead on the sharp spikes.

The remaining ones, which had been out of range at the moment of casting, continued their advance, however. Damian could narrowly avoid an arrow fired in his direction and hardened his skin to become as solid as stone in response. He might be better protected than when he had been dressed in a plain shirt and trousers, but if any of the undead succeeded in drawing blood he would likely lose the fragile connection with his mana and only be able to channel blood magic.

A ball of fire dealt with two of the archers. Despite the rain, which continued to clatter down on the trees and his head, the magical flames burned brightly and did not die before the corpses had been burned to a crisp. The demons trapped within flailed with decomposing arms and staggered around in attempts to escape the fire but as muscles, tendons and even bone were consumed the ability to move was rapidly lost. Eventually they dropped in the mud without firing off another arrow.

Five more undead continued to advance while the three impaled on his wall of ice tried their best to free themselves, not in the least discouraged by the sizable holes in their bodies. None of them moved very fast and even with the moon peeping between the lead-tinted clouds as unreliable light source Damian wagered he should be able to outrun them, but having this group behind him while trying to find an obscure smuggler hideout did not make a very enticing prospect. If he was forced to rush he was all the more likely to trample on another set of undead and add those to the ones chasing him. Better to deal with this obstacle now.

If he could bring those buggers close together, he would be able to take them out with one final, well-aimed spell. Once more he focused on the flow of magic within himself and the energy hidden in the air around him, the subtlest breeze between the trees he could bend to his will, expand and use for his own purposes. But again unexpected limitations took Damian by surprise and tripped him up. With his attention already turned to casting on mana it should have been relatively easy to manage this bit of force magic, but although he could reach the natural center of his magic he unexpectedly found himself scraping the bottom of his reserves. The startled realization could best be compared to walking down a flight of stairs and reaching the ground while anticipating one additional step.

He should not be feeling drained, not yet. For years he had been in much more heated battles during which he had cast a considerably larger number of spells as a mercenary - and later, Champion - in Kirkwall. Damian might have blamed this on the limited need for grand displays of magic while living in a secluded place with Fenris, the result of a weakening process of neglect, like a muscle losing strength and endurance after a period of disuse. But the pull of what was brimming right under the surface of his skin could not be denied. There was plenty of power still there, just waiting to be used, and while other factors might play a part, he knew his turn to blood magic was the true reason for his problems. It had amplified his power while simultaneously limiting his abilities when not drawing from the force of life.

He adjusted the hold on his staff. Either he switched to using his blood as fuel or he was unable to kill the remaining monsters with magic. _Wonderful._

So now he got to watch the undead getting pulled back and tossed around the heart of his telekinetic spell but had no energy left to muster a fireball. It could have been comical if it was not so horribly inconvenient. And just sad. Damian stared at the heap of corpses flailing their arms and legs about to extricate themselves from the tangled mass. In their anger and frustration they injured their peers with the weapons they were still clutching, but for all except one undead, which got its hand - and thus its accompanying dagger - cut off, those injuries were easy to ignore. Why would creatures which did not bleed and were incapable of feeling pain be concerned about a few more holes and tears in their rotting flesh?

The first undead was already getting to its feet again. In the faint, green light of the Veil tear in the lake Hawke caught a glimpse of an ear, wrinkled and shrunken from rot, the upper half detached from the skull so it was dangling upside down by a few threads. It swung forward when the corpse turned its head in his direction, the motion tearing the connective tissue just a little bit further.

He could easily obliterate all those bloody walking corpses if he used his blood for a fire spell. A vein in his temple as well as one in his forearm pulsed. As if to mock his self-proclaimed helplessness, his insistence to be weak while he could be unstoppable.

Turning his staff so the blade at the end was pointing up he backed away, eyes on the nearest undead - now a mere five paces removed from him - to grant himself some extra time to hopefully think of a clever solution. Last time he faced a foe without control over his magic, he had received such a hard punch that it made him see stars and had ended up with a crushed hand.

Hawke took a step forward, simultaneously swinging his staff. The tip of the blade cracked the skull and yanked a piece of bone loose. A single undead up close was not that difficult to handle, but if the rest of the group swarmed him, it would be easy to get overwhelmed. They had to be taken out from a distance...

As if the Maker had overheard that last thought, an arrow appeared out of nowhere and buried itself in the right empty eye socket. A second arrow followed and neatly pierced the black opening on the left. The force knocked the corpse several steps back and made it stumble. Before it landed on the ground yet another arrow flew over Damian's shoulder and into the gaping mouth, which was larger than it must have been in life because the lips had shriveled up and pulled back from the teeth. Two other undead had extricated themselves from the pile, only to be nailed together by more arrows. Confused and disgruntled growls rumbled in their throats when they discovered they could no longer move their arms independently.

For a few more seconds than could be considered smart Damian stared at the undead-turned-pincushions. Arrows continued to be fired in quick succession, hampering advance until the monsters had been rendered unable to attack. They got pinned to the ground, or each other, or both, and tried their hardest to retain enough mobility to kill the mortals they hated so much. He looked around, searching for the helpful Inquisition scout who had come to his rescue. Instead of the expected leather armor and peculiar light green hood, his defender was clad in very different armor and colors. The vertical, azure stripes, alternated by silverite's metal glimmer, looked more aqua in the flashes of light from the Veil tear, but the dual griffons on the shoulders and chest plate made it impossible to mistake this man for anything but a Grey Warden. Damian's first thought was that Stroud had managed to find him rather than the other way around, but while it was possible - if not improbable - that in the time since they had last met the warrior had exchanged his impressively long and thick mustache for a more modest style of facial hair and had very rapidly let his hair grow out till jaw-length, there was no way he had molded his previously straight nose into this hooked eagle's beak. Yet the man's sharp features seemed familiar.

"Warden Nathaniel?"

He had only met Nathaniel once before, after encountering the Warden's worried sister and travelling into the Deep Roads on a rescue mission at her behest. Hawke had tracked Nathaniel and the remainder of his squat down in one of the tunnels they had travelled during Varric's and Bartrand's expedition. As Fate - or simply pure coincidence - would have it, what had been left of the group happened to be Carver alone, who of course saw Damian's ability to show up even a week of travel below the surface as yet another example of his brother's incessant meddling and was unappreciative of the rescue. Damian almost expected Carver to step out of the bushes and accuse him of sticking his nose where it didn't belong. Again. But this time Nathaniel appeared to be alone.

The Warden's eyes narrowed as he came closer. He had still not said anything by the time he was standing in front of Damian, his thin brows knitted in a puzzled frown. He searched the other man's face before staring at what Damian was wearing with a mix of curious amusement and confusion.

"Serah Hawke?" he finally asked in return.

Damian nodded, about to clarify that his choice of attire was in fact not a choice but the result of manipulation akin to what his mother used to employ to force "proper" clothes or haircuts on him. Then he remembered the fall from before, when the undead had grabbed his ankle. Sure enough, a single glance down revealed that his entire chest, legs and most of his arms were coated in a layer of black mud. Making a face, he looked back at Nathaniel. "I ran into a little trouble."

One corner of the dark-haired man's mouth rose in a cool half-smile. "I suspected as much."

He moved past Hawke with measured strides, bow still in hand. Next to an undead he stopped. Despite well-aimed arrows locking joints like the knees and preventing it from rising, the skull turned in Nathaniel's direction. The mouth opened, then shut with a clattering sound. This was repeated more and more vigorously, likely stemming from a burning desire to bite through the Warden's leg when he placed a foot on the undead's temple to keep the monster still and pulled a broad hunter's knife. As stoically as Damian suspected he had fired off arrow after arrow Nathaniel jabbed the knife between two neck vertebrae and moved it back and forth until the head was separated from the body. The undead stilled immediately.

While Nathaniel continued to the next undead, Damian followed his example and went to a corpse which had lost its hand in the preceding struggle. He reached for the old knife he always carried on his belt but his fingers grasped into nothing. The material of his armor was all he felt. The haft wrapped in leather or the chill of metal was nowhere to be found. He must have lost it at some point or forgotten to bring it with him from Skyhold. Everything was just going splendidly on this grand quest to help stop Corypheus.

As if to make fun of him some more, the undead rattled its yellowed teeth together. Damian responded by lifting his right foot and letting it descend on the skull. The sound and feel of bone splintering under the heavy boot was very satisfying. Less satisfying was the stinking mush that welled up between the cracks and now coated his boot.

"Did you lose the rest of your group again?" he asked Nathaniel when they had dealt with the last undead and could talk without worrying that one was slowly crawling over to them to exact vengeance.

"I could ask you the same thing, but no. This time I'm on my own." The raven-haired Warden eyed him questioningly. "And what brings you out here alone, Serah Hawke? The undead might be unpleasant, but if your associates are willing to keep you company in the Deep Roads, Crestwood can't be so intimidating."

"I'm not alone," Damian replied airily, wondering if he should mention the Inquisition and if so, whether to exaggerate the presence of allies in the vicinity. Nathaniel had just saved his ass but he hardly knew the Warden. With Corypheus out and about and "suspicious" behavior among the Wardens it would be wisest not to be too trusting until he had spoken with Stroud and knew more of what was going on with the Order. "I'm on reconnaissance, as the Orlesians would call it. Scouting ahead and exploring the region a little. The others did not feel like making a moonlit walk in the rain with undead around."

"I see." Nathaniel sounded skeptical.

In the silence that followed both men clearly tried to decide how open to be with the other party, what to say next. Damian could see the Warden measure him and weigh his options. The uncertain situation quickly became tense.

"Well..." He made a half-hearted attempt to wipe some of the mud off his armor. "My thanks for the help with the corpses. I'll be more careful."

He held up a hand as goodbye when Nathaniel cleared his throat. "You don't happen to be looking for your brother, are you?"

As casually as the inquiry was made, it set off warning bells in Damian's mind. "How so?"

"There are some... reasons for concern," was the careful reply. "Have you had any contact with him at all lately?"

"Can't say that I have."

The decision to lie was made in an instant. Something was off. This was more than passing interest in Carver's well-being and the relationship between the two Hawke brothers.

Even with the lack of daylight the Warden was visibly unconvinced.

"Are you looking for him?" Damian tried.

Nathaniel hesitated before nodding. "New orders have been issued he might have missed. Because a senior member of the Order he was close to has turned to treason, it was decided to look into the matter."

_That senior member must be Stroud._ "Turned to treason" sounded bad. Very bad. What could have made Stroud into a traitor? Or maybe the better question was what had made the other Wardens brand him as such. Was Corypheus involved with either side?

"Are you suspecting Carver of treason as well?" Damian inquired cautiously.

"I can't say I've worked much with him. I tend to serve in Ferelden while he is usually in the Free Marches, but Carver is a fine Warden and has always been an asset to the Order, as far as I'm aware. If his absence is at all related to Stroud turning traitor, I assume it's because he disagreed with Stroud's plans and not because he has resorted to treason as well. We have no reason to suspect that Carver has betrayed the Order."

_Except his ties to Stroud and his disappearance._ In other words, two reasons for suspicion. Damian had spent enough time with treacherous, scheming people to know that Nathaniel was being very careful in his phrasing. Of course the Warden would not tell him if Carver was being hunted for treason. Compliments about his brother's skill and how valuable he was to the Grey Wardens likely were supposed to make Damian glow with pride and eager to share what he knew of the whereabouts of this gem of the family.

"We rarely have contact," he told Nathaniel. "I doubt my means of getting in touch are more reliable than what the Wardens have at their disposal."

Again the archer studied him with those sharp, intelligent eyes and again it was clear that he did not believe, or at least doubted, the truth of Hawke's words. But there was not a lot he could do to push the issue without revealing more of his intentions. Or turn this distrustful conversation hostile. Damian glanced at Nathaniel's right hand. Previously he had taken the fact that the Warden had not sheathed his bow as a precaution in case more undead were lurking about. Now it seemed just as plausible that an arrow would be pointed at him in the very near future. He subtly moved his staff so he was holding it more in front of his body and could easily wield it when needed. Not that this would help much, given his lack of available mana and Nathaniel's ability to effortlessly hit targets as small as eye sockets and elbow joints.

The move did not escape the dark-haired man, as was evident by the flicker of his gaze to the weapon. Damian cursed the rogue's perceptiveness. If Nathaniel decided to fire off an arrow at him, chances he could dodge or otherwise escape getting injured were nonexistent.

The moment of uncertainty, that pause between one action and the next, stretched on. His nerves frayed with each heartbeat in which the Warden watched him quietly with that bloody unreadable face of his. He knew Nathaniel did not believe his claims about not having had contact with his brother or having any knowledge of Carver's whereabouts, and he knew that Nathaniel was deciding how to respond to the lies. But Damian had no idea in which direction that decision was leaning.

"I apologize," Nathaniel finally said with a small smile. "Few relatives know more than the country their family member serves in most of the time once they become part of the Order, let alone their exact location. If all of them were like Delilah, we'd be buried beneath piles of concerned letters. I shouldn't have asked. I hope I have not made you worried. That we currently can't be certain where Carver is, doesn't mean he is in trouble. He is a skilled fighter, so he should be capable of handling any obstacle he might encounter."

"He is," Damian agreed.

If Nathaniel was attempting to ease his suspicion with these empty reassuring words, it was not working. Now the Warden had apparently opted not to force the issue to get more information, all Damian wanted was to get away and put as much distance between himself and Nathaniel as possible. Carver's suspicion of corruption within the Warden ranks and Corypheus' potential role in that kept echoing through Damian's mind. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was a paranoia Fenris would have been proud of in the time before Danarius met his well-deserved end, but he just knew that something was off. Nathaniel was looking for Carver and it was not out of pure comradely concern. Hoping to hide this realization if it was showing on his face, he looked down and pretended to focus on cleaning corpse brain off his boot.

"Well, it was a nice surprise to run into you. I have to be on my way again and I'm sure so do you. Again, my thanks for the help with the undead."

He looked up in time to see Nathaniel give a nod. "You're welcome. Good luck on the rest of your travels, Hawke."

Damian did not waste time to prolong the exchange of farewells. With a wave of his hand he turned and continued in the way he had been heading before rudely getting interrupted by an undead. Judging by the lack of sound behind him - the constant clatter of the still-pouring rain excepted - Nathaniel was watching him leave. When he estimated there were more than enough trees blocking the Warden's vision of him, he increased his pace to a quick jog. The heavy parts of his armor slowed him down and made it difficult to run, the metal greaves especially growing heavier with each step. But after saving his foot from getting amputated by that undead, he did not dare form another negative thought about the "Robes of the Champion". Not that he would ever tell Varric.

It was not lack of air or tiring legs that made him halt after roughly fifteen minutes though. Struggling to even his breathing and limit the noise he was making he leaned against a tree and waited. He did not have to wait long before he heard footsteps off in the distance behind him, the snapping of branches, the crunching of gravel and the occasional splash when one foot landed in a puddle not fully obscured by the rain. A lot softer than his trampling in heavy boots had been, but still audible when listening intently. The person who was following him must be thinking the same because the footsteps slowed, then stopped completely.

_Well, shit._

Damian Hawke set off again, turning south instead of sticking to the south-western direction Stroud's cave was supposedly located in. Nathaniel was following him. Expecting to be led to Carver, or Stroud, or the Maker's bloody golden throne. This time he did not bother to run, maintaining quick, long strides instead. Outrunning the Warden was out of the question and even if he would have the stamina to outlast Nathaniel, the rogue was so hot on his heels that he could still follow the tracks if he suddenly turned blind. The drizzling rain helped but was not enough to hide Hawke's trail in a manner of minutes. He would have to think of something else to find Stroud without guiding unwelcome company straight to him.

Every now and then he turned his attention inwards, to his mana, to check whether he had regenerated enough to cast spells again. He could feel his magic grow steadily but oh so frustratingly slowly, like the trickle of an hourglass which had been made too narrow. He had to keep walking until he could at least use one spell. One spell to take Nathaniel by surprise and stop him.

He stopped regularly. To pretend to rest - he most _certainly_ did not need the breaks for real - but in truth to prevent straying too far from his true destination. Every mile he travelled south he would have to backtrack later. Nevertheless he walked for what felt like - and most likely were - over two hours. Only then had enough of his magic returned to manage something useful. Fortunately the terrain was changing to his advantage as well now. Rather than hide more vindictive corpses in the mud, Crestwood's terrain suddenly changed to increasingly tall rock formations on both sides of the path. The result was a fairly narrow pass travelers were forced to follow.

Perfect for an ambush. Or a trap.

The pass appeared to be the most narrow fairly early on. Farther away there was a cave on his right, a cave which should lead all the way to the other side of the massive wall of rocks. Damian halted again. Seconds drizzled by as he tried to get a firm hold on his mana again. The glyph of paralysis spell was one of the few he had continued to use frequently while he lived in seclusion with Fenris and it lit up on the soaked ground reasonably quickly. He waited till the glow had dimmed and then started running, ducking into the cave and hoping there was no hungry giant spider waiting in the dark. If he could trick Nathaniel into increasing his speed again to keep up, there was a smaller chance the Warden would spot the glyph, and if he did not trust the passage and sought an alternative route, the cave ensured there was no trail of footsteps to follow.

_Sorry, Nathaniel. Hopefully the undead won't find you._

Now he just had to find a way around the pass, back to the area where Stroud's hiding place should be.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

He had been right. Damian Hawke took a swig from the very large tankard of ale he had ordered in the Herald's Rest tavern. Never had he hated being right this much before. Or maybe it was this horrible combination of being right and things turning out even worse than he could have assumed that was so maddening.

Carver thought he was dying. Corypheus was messing with the Wardens' heads, he had to be. Every Warden spontaneously deciding at the same time that they were going to die seemed too much of a coincidence to be plausible without interference of some kind. And Carver nor Stroud had said a damned word when Damian shared his concerns about Corypheus. They had both just sat there when he reminded them of Corypheus' ability to manipulate the mind of a Warden and not said _anything_ regarding the possibility it was already happening with them. He and Carver had fought and shouted at each other about his intent to keep the younger Hawke safe while he was already feeling the Taint claim more and more of both body and mind each day. Joining the Grey Wardens had always seemed a questionable rescue because it damned Carver to spend the rest of his days battling darkspawn, but at least he was cured from the Blight sickness, or so Damian had believed. Now it turned out a lifetime of fighting monsters was only delaying the inevitable. Wardens were "tied" to the Blight, as Stroud had put it. The Blight's poison still flowed through Carver's veins and if darkspawn did not cut him down, the Taint would still be victorious in the end. Their dangerous journey into the Deep Roads, that ambitious mission to get so stinking rich that the Templar Order would have to look the other way even when they did suspect the elder Hawke's abilities, had cost his brother's life.

_" I'd rather be dead, so you can just piss off and let it happen!"_ Damian drank some more of his ale and stared at the map he had pulled from his pocket and put on the table. Most of the parchment he had left folded up to keep the package as small as possible. Only part of the Silent Plains was of interest anyway, or rather, only a tiny marked spot on the Plains. The map belonged to Stroud. Used to. After the Warden had turned and rather abruptly abandoned the old smugglers cave near Crestwood, followed by the Inquisitor's group, Damian had taken the map with him. If the notes at the bottom were to be believed, that marked spot was a Warden outpost. The outpost where Carver was supposedly hiding. Surviving. Holding on. _Fuck you, Carver. Don't you go fucking die on me._

His little brother was out there with Death's song in his head, slowly slipping away until not enough was left to hold on to, to fight for, and there was nothing left to do but give up. That was already far too familiar, too similar to what had happened with Fenris when the markings started falling apart and became increasingly unstable, allowing demons to whisper in his mind and driving him ever-closer to the brink of insanity. But of course this serious threat to shorten Carver's borrowed time was not enough. No, of course the rest of the Grey Wardens had to condemn him for treason and decide to hunt him. That Nathaniel was – or had been? – the only one who was looking for Carver seemed doubtful. According to the Inquisitor more Wardens had been searching for Stroud near Crestwood. Had Carver even reached that outpost on the Silent Plains? Or had he been put in chains by his fellow Wardens somewhere along the way? There had been little opportunity to ask Stroud about the situation because the Warden had set off for the Western Approach in Orlais almost as soon as they had found him, while the Inquisitor and her allies – Damian Hawke included – had returned to Skyhold. The lack of time might have been for the best. After the reveal of the unanimous Calling, Damian had been so frustrated that the urge to forcefully rid Stroud of his mustache had seemed much more appealing than engaging in something approaching polite conversation.

"Ah, the famed Champion of Kirkwall _and_ Minrathous has come to join the mundane for a taste of whatever it is they have managed to drag all the way up to Skyhold. I must warn you that this swill can have far-reaching consequences. The taste buds will never be the same again."

Damian raised his head to look at the owner of the subtly accented voice which so jovially addressed him, just in time to see him slide into the seat on his left. Quickly he grabbed the stolen map and stuffed it back into one of his pockets, an action his unannounced company observed with arched brow and knowing smirk on the lips, as if he knew all too well Hawke had been caught looking at some poorly written novel or crude pornographic illustration.

"I was starting to think I would have to request a private audience to get better acquainted, yet here you are. The ale is good for something after all. We can bond over the poor taste and lament the memory of high quality wine." The man lifted his own absurdly large tankard in a toast and took a sip. He winced, made a disgusted face, lowered his tankard and proceeded to look at Damian expectantly.

Damian stared back, wondering what he could want. Was this another admirer he had Varric to thank for? He could recall having seen the man around Skyhold – his choice of attire, consisting of multiple leather straps and bands decorated with reflecting pieces of metal spanning crisscross over chest and back, and which left one tanned shoulder bare, was difficult to miss – but, despite the accent sounding familiar, had not exchanged words with him. A thin, black mustache, carefully narrowing and curling up towards the ends, covered the space between his upper lip and slightly aquiline nose, while the bottom lip had to content with a small black tuft shaped like an inverse triangle. The rest of the hair on his head had clearly been tended to with similar devotion and precision, and was worn with the sides near the ears shaven and the middle somehow sculpted to stay partially upright. Everything about his well-kept appearance indicated this was someone wealthy, someone of high birth. That his skin was a deep bronze even in winter suggested he did not hail from the South. Damian could sense the charge in the air surrounding them, that near tangible energy every mage carried with him. And then there was the accent...

"You're Tevinter," he grumbled with a level of distaste equal to what the other man had displayed for the ale.

Something in the other's face tightened for two heartbeats. Then the good-natured smile returned. "Ah, I see you've forgotten our previous introduction. How tragic. Granted, it was very brief and you undoubtedly had a lot on your mind on that wondrous evening, but I had hoped you would not have forgotten a face like mine. Who could? Allow me this second attempt: Dorian, scion of House Pavus. Originally from Qarinus, but we met in Minrathous after you so skillfully humiliated the entire Magisterium by defeating a magister in a duel. It was very entertaining, truly the highlight of my year."

So not a fan because of Varric's tall tales but because of what he had done in an attempt to save Fenris from the unstable markings. After Danarius' death, a new magister had taken up residence in his mansion, and that magister had been of no mind to allow a Fereldan barbarian and a former elven slave into his home to search for documentation on the ritual Danarius had used to create the pattern of lyrium engraved in Fenris' skin. A duel had been presented as the only way to gain access to the mansion and the information within. That and much more had been part of the insane search for a way to keep Fenris alive. To hear part of that search described as "entertaining" by a Tevinter noble mage could not qualify as surprising, but it did further sour Damian's already low spirits.

"Not even rooting for your own kind, magister?" he asked mockingly.

Dorian rolled with his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. "Altus. I am an _altus_, not a magister. Which makes me considerably more pleasant company. Honestly, after all those months you spent with our elite, one would think you'd know better than to assume every mage from Tevinter is a magister. As for rooting for "my kind", though they may be my countrymen, I'd like to believe we don't have much in common. Most are a lot more fun when they've got their panties twisted in a bunch, and a barbarian from the South managing to kill a magister in front of half the city had them wound up so tight they couldn't walk straight for weeks."

"Glad to hear my fight to the death was so fun for you."

Hawke's disinterested tone must have been a clear enough signal for Dorian to grasp that the current direction of their conversation was not going to lead anywhere pleasant. Clearing his throat, he changed course. "How is the elf? Your... you consider him your partner, right? I believe Varric mentioned he survived."

Damian took a gulp of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "He is recovering."

The question about calling Fenris his partner he chose to ignore. He had lost the right to refer to the white-haired elf as such, but that was none of Dorian's business. The ground would open up and swallow him before Damian would discuss the status of his relationship with a Tevinter noble.

"Good. That's good to hear," Dorian replied a little awkwardly. Leaning on his forearms he shortened the distance between himself and Hawke, as if he was about to share a personal secret. "It wasn't just the duel that made quite the scandal. There was also the way you... celebrated your victory." The nonchalant demeanor slipped suddenly, flamboyance turning almost shy. "Such a public display of affection is unheard of in Tevinter, especially among nobility. It was bold of you to show your relationship with... - Fenris, was it? - in such a way."

Damian glanced at the other mage. One look at that perfectly groomed hair made him miss Fenris' messy hair, always close to getting in his eyes, just a little bit too long and awkwardly cut at the nape of the neck. The appearance of someone who knew there were much more important things in life than how to wear your hair, and thus did not care in the slightest about a sloppy cut. "Why?" he asked, acid in his voice. "Because he used to be a slave?"

Said "public display of affection" had been a kiss in the center of the arena, in front of everyone who had witnessed the duel. A moment of sharing pure relief, astonishment, that they had made it, were still standing and had come one step closer to a solution despite the obstacles thrown in their path by the magisters. One of the last times he could almost taste the words that made it all possible, the words everything revolved around: _"nothing can be worse than the thought of living without you."_ The opinion of the magisters had not come into play in the decision to kiss Fenris. And never would.

"Well, I suppose that played a part in the outrage too, but the fact that you were both men was the more important reason. In Tevinter it's considered something deviant, shameful even, to be practiced in secret behind closed doors and then still not between two equals. I've been told it's different here in the South but... let's just say I found it inspiring."

"How nice."

"This must be why they say you should never meet your heroes," Dorian exclaimed in irritation. "Did it get through at all that I was paying you a compliment, or was it drowned by your gloomy drinking? I know I said the disgusting swill here is bound to affect your mind, but that doesn't excuse being such a horrible conversational partner."

"I apologize. I didn't realize me sitting here obligated me to entertain you. Nobody told me."

"And southerners wonder why they are often called barbarians." The Tevinter now sounded truly offended. "I never claimed you were under any obligation to please me. I merely started a conversation with the expectation that standard good manners would make it at least tolerable. Now I see the error in my assumption. Has anyone ever bothered explaining to you what manners are?"

If Dorian had hoped Damian would be insulted, he was in for disappointment. "I am done playing nice with slave-owning snakes."

A high-pitched, mocking laugh escaped the Tevinter mage. "Just how are you in any position to claim the moral high ground and criticize my country's practice of slavery? I don't remember you refusing to be served by slaves at the celebration of your victory. Also, did that victory not earn you a magister's residence, complete with a household of slaves? Funny how I haven't heard anything about how you nobly freed them all immediately because your gentle, superior heart could not bear to have slaves work for you. Of course you gave them enough coin to afford a month's worth of food. They must have dropped to the floor to kiss your barbarian feet. Oh, no, wait, wait... That did not happen. After staying in Minrathous for months, you simply left the city and abandoned all those poor slaves you care so much about."

"I freed them before I left."

"To you it might be the same, but in Tevinter starting a riot is in fact not an officially recognized way of gaining a slave's freedom. Setting one free can only be done before a judge or by the owner's will. You're sitting here, so we can assume you're not dead. So did you really free your slaves?"

Damian shot the dark-haired man a glare. "Maybe I would have had time to play by your rules if you people hadn't suddenly been so eager to cut off my head. I didn't see a judge around then either."

"Ah, yes. We are quite good at arranging things like that on short notice to get rid of dangerous traitors and maleficarum. Usually those two just so happen to be the same thing too." His gaze went to Hawke's left hand, which was resting on the table's surface but still mostly covered up by a fingerless glove. Apparently he decided not to comment on it after all, because his attention swung back to the other mage's face, the smug smile Damian had already come to loathe playing around his full lips. "But that's beside the point, don't you think? If you were content to live with slaves for months, it can't have been that bad, so why insist on falling back on old prejudices?"

Damian raised his tankard, squeezing his eyes shut when the cool metal touched his lips. He was sick of this conversation, of this smug, spoiled noble rubbing his perceived hypocrisy under his nose. Maybe that was exactly what it was: hypocrisy. To claim opposition to slavery while not releasing the slaves who had come into his possession as a mere side-effect of attempts to stop Fenris' gradual deterioration. He could not deny that the way he had treated the unexpected issue had been wrong. The slaves had deserved better than a disinterested master who ultimately abandoned them to their fate when chaos descended on them. That was one way of looking at it. Perhaps the only way that mattered. Fenris would likely think so. But it was not the entire picture. He had not dared to free the slaves from the start out of fear that it would create more unrest and ire the magisters. They had needed time, enough time to find a solution, and possibly losing the magisters' aid had seemed a price they were unable to afford. Even if said aid had turned out to merely be the illusion of friendship and support. Their time in Minrathous had been one horrible situation after another, a string of never-ending nightmares. Winning the duel against a magister might have felt heroic in the moment but had also cost the life of an innocent slave. Fenris had been forced to kill the woman, who had been hidden among the audience, to stop Hawke's opponent from using her blood as fuel for his spells. It was a time Damian preferred not to revisit in memory. A verbal sparring match with Dorian to determine who was more right in insulting the other hardly made it more pleasant.

After several gulps he opened his eyes and lowered his drink. Despite his previous disinterest in the conversation and intent not to let the Tevinter get under his skin, it bothered him to hear it confirmed that he truly had not freed the slaves in Minrathous. To realize he had uttered nothing but empty, meaningless words before turning his back on the estate that had once belonged to Danarius. Another promise to Fenris broken.

"I'm not basing myself on old prejudices," he replied, his jaw tense. "Owning someone like they're nothing but property is wrong. It's as simple as that."

"Is it? For someone with no coin or opportunities to speak of it can be the only way to ensure he never has to worry about food or clothes. Selling himself into slavery can even allow him to provide for a family if he wished. The options outside of Tevinter are turning to crime or begging, or simply wallowing in poverty. Perhaps all three. I didn't think much about it before I came here, but my guess is that in most cases the slave will be better off."

_"The slave will be better off." _How easily the Tevinter let the words roll off his tongue. Damian saw the scene in the Hanged Man in his mind before comprehending why this claim sounded so familiar. Fenris, anxious to meet the sister he had no memory of, both excited and terrified at the prospect of how it could go, the possibility it was a trap preventing him from simply being happy his family was finally within reach. The look of silent terror on his face when coming eye to eye with a betrayal so great, so grave, it was impossible to grasp in the instant it revealed itself. Fenris as a young slave fighting to earn the honor of undergoing a ritual he could not begin to fathom – who could have known, except Danarius, how far a magister would go in his ambition to create something unique? – just for the chance to free his family from slavery. A sacrifice his sister, that sister he had been so desperate to find, threw back in his face because of a life in that poverty Dorian so casually deemed the worse option. A poverty which was apparently worse than Fenris' pain, his humiliation, loss of identity and all sense of self, reduced to a project the designer could show off and take pride in. That was being better off, the better end of the bargain.

Anger bubbling up under the surface of his purposefully blank expression, Damian Hawke looked at the man on his left. "What do you know of slavery, _altus_?" he inquired in a tone as if he were simply curious. "When have you been forced to "wallow" in poverty? What gives you the experience, the _right_, to state what is worse than being a slave and what isn't if you "didn't think much about it before"?"

"If you want to focus purely on wealth I will admit I have been fortunate," Dorian conceded. "But when it's about perceived freedom and lack thereof, I am familiar with the threat of having the ability to choose taken from you." He swallowed visibly and blinked once, twice, before continuing, whatever had brought about this glimpse of genuine emotion smothered under a calm, understanding smile. "I don't personally own slaves, but my family does. Everyone in our service is treated well. Ask them whether they'd prefer to be released and I bet they will tell you to bugger off."

"I'm sure all of those rebellions that keep happening never have anything to do with your family's slaves," Damian immediately shot. "That most have been taught not to expect or even hope for freedom only makes it worse, yet you dare to use it to support your system of oppression and injustice. I have worked in indentured servitude for a year, living in a filthy hovel with my grouch of an uncle and years old cheese, and I hated it. It was bloody awful and I know it was not even a fraction of what Fenris went through at the hands of Danarius. My poverty and servitude were _nothing_ compared to what slavery did to him."

Dorian gave a sympathetic nod. Apologetically he said: "Of course. What happened to Fenris cannot be excused. Though I did not know him personally Danarius must have been a madman indeed. It's understandable to condemn slavery when you reason from that situation alone. But while Fenris' case is unfortunate, it is also an exception, one-"

How that sentence was supposed to end would forever remain unknown to everyone but Dorian, because the Tevinter mage was abruptly interrupted when Hawke jumped to his feet and grabbed him by the collar. "An exception?!" Damian thundered, hoisting a stunned Dorian from his seat. Both their tankards toppled over, spilling ale across the table's surface. The entire tavern fell quiet in an instant, every pair of eyes turning in their direction. Even the minstrel ceased her song and joined in staring at the two mages. Damian was deaf to the silence, blind to the stares. "Is that what helps you sleep at night? It's not the norm so nothing has to change? How unfortunate for Fenris that his life got completely fucked by one of your magisters, but as long as it can be brushed aside as an exception it doesn't really matter! It's just too bad that he was one of the insignificant unlucky ones. Who cares if he got to suffer when most slaves don't know any better and manage to stay out of their masters' way." He shook the Tevinter, who appeared to be too surprised to formulate a response. The leather straps of his attire turned out to be very convenient for holding the raven-haired mage up. "I'm curious, what part do you base yourself on to paint him an exception? The ritual that branded lyrium into his flesh and caused so much agony that he lost his memory? That everything in his life was aimed at molding him into the perfect bodyguard, the perfect weapon, the perfect slave, to the point where Danarius had complete ownership over his body _and_ mind? That he was ordered to kill whoever his Master wanted dead and he had no choice but to obey, even when those orders were directed against the only people who had ever helped him and shown him kindness? That he was hunted like prey for ten years when he had the gall to break free from Danarius' leash? That those damned markings bound him to his Master in life and death, so they made him sick and damaged his mind _again_ when Danarius died? Or that that bastard could fuck him whenever he chose and call it "affection"?"

The words kept coming, flowing like pus from a festering wound, an aching memory accompanying each sentence. Fenris hiding in that old neglected mansion, looking over his shoulder wherever he went. Fenris finally telling the story of his escape, a panicked flight from what blind devotion and obedience had made him do, rather than seizing a long-awaited opportunity for freedom. His anger and fear when Hadriana came after him, the self-loathing and disillusionment when he discovered that a lifetime of suffering and torment had brewed a bitter hatred so heavy it crushed the promise that would see one of those responsible free.

"No, it's definitely not the last one, is it? That's no exception for you people. Just one of the uses of slaves. They are so far beneath you that they should probably be honored to get a feel of a magister's cock. The closest they'll ever get to greatness. You say Danarius was mad. If Danarius was wrong and went too far, then why did none of you do anything to stop him? Why did no-one ever breathe a word about helping Fenris? Did you ever save any of the exceptions from underneath their masters' heel? When Danarius died, when Fenris tore his rotten heart out, he should have been _free_, but instead the markings started falling apart and were slowly killing him. But did the magisters seize the opportunity to make amends and right the wrongs they allowed? Did anyone offer help? No, like snakes you schemed, lied, toyed with us to get ahead. You'd see Fenris back in chains and me dead, and it was so very entertaining. Where was your remorse then? The secret ritual Danarius used to create the markings was far more interesting. The means to create more bloody exceptions were more valuable!" His arms started shaking, from emotion or simply the effort of lifting Dorian up, but his fingers clenched even harder around the mage's clothing. Fenris' angry embarrassment when a well-intended gift forced him to reveal slavery had kept him illiterate. The way he broke when Varania sold him out to Danarius for a chance to become a magister herself. All those years of keeping their distance from each other because fear, so many fears, held him back. Every time a demented Fenris addressed him as "Master".

"I don't believe you got it the first time, so let me repeat it," he growled, "Owning someone is wrong. It's not the exceptions that make it so. It's not a few sick bastards that mess it up. The fact that it's perceived as normal, that you don't give any thought to owning a person like they are a bloody footstool, _that's _what is fucking wrong with the system of slavery. That's what makes you all look the other way when lyrium gets burned into flesh, when people are sacrificed like cattle for a spell. Poverty as the alternative, some slaves being satisfied with their position because it has been ingrained in them not to strive for something better, those are nothing but excuses to dismiss the crimes." His face contorted in contempt. "It's not the blood magic and demons that makes you monsters."

He threw Dorian back in his chair with so much force that the Tevinter was nearly knocked over and stomped out of the Herald's Rest.


	11. Chapter 11

"Maker, even when that old con is in a different country he is somehow involved in trouble," Aveline stated with exasperation while taking in the crime scene. "It was bad enough when his guard serial caused fistfights in the barracks over whom the main character is modeled after. Now we have a murder on a magistrate, inspired by one of his scenes? Bran is going to hound me for this, I just know it."

They were standing in a small enclosed space on the first floor of one of Hightown's estates. The closet appeared even more cramped because of the furniture which had apparently been positioned to barricade the entrance. An unsteady construction, formed by an armchair dragged on top of a salon table, had effectively prevented them from making it past the threshold before Brennan and an elven guard who seemed familiar but Fenris could not quite place had cleared the way. What remained in the closet were two suits of armor, various swords, shields, daggers, a crossbow, and a miniature figurine of Andraste. And the body of Lord Werner Camring.

The magistrate lay slumped on the floor in a pool of drying blood, face down, fingers still clutching a second crossbow, this one loaded. Neither the bolt ready to be fired nor the silverite armor he was dressed in had saved him from the knife in his back. Judging by its position, Fenris guessed that the murderer had stabbed the deadly sharp metal precisely in the narrow gap between the breast plate and shoulder guard and punctured a lung, an assumption further supported by the magistrate's bloodied lips and chin. One of the lungs filling with blood was not instantly lethal, however, as he knew all too well from his own experience. Perhaps the magistrate had been more hindered by his heavy attire than that he had benefited from it and, once taken by surprise and wounded, had not been able to put his weapon to use. Shooting a target behind you with an unwieldy crossbow did not offer great chances of success either, especially if the killer had restrained his victim.

Crouching down Fenris indeed detected smudges on the right greave, likely from the sole of a boot. The murderer had indeed used his weight to keep the magistrate still and – likely, given the surprise of the servants at the death of their employer – quiet. Details like this made it not perfect but all in all it formed an uncanny reenactment of a chapter from 'Hard in Hightown: Siege Harder'.

Aveline turned to Brennan. " I would still like to hear the part that explains how it's possible that you are the one who found him. On what orders did you visit a magistrate for questioning when your duty was to patrol the old Chantry district?"

The guard with medium brown hair reaching till her jaw had likely expected that she would not be able to get away with omitting the reason for her visit to the magistrate and looked a little uneasy. "A friend had discovered something strange and asked me if I could talk to the magistrate. Apparently he was the courier of a plagiarized manuscript based on one of Varric's books. The estate was on the way of our patrol so I thought we could drop by."

"So that dwarf asked you to interrogate a magistrate for him? I expected better than risking the guard's reputation for one of his fancy stories, Guardswoman."

"No, Captain. Commander Cullen is the one who made the request. He and Varric are both working with the Inquisition now and apparently the Inquisitor found it worthwhile to look into the matter. And it seems they were right, Captain. I've read some of Varric's books and... maybe I'm not remembering it right, but this," Brennan gestured at remains of the noble, "is very similar to the murder on a magistrate in 'Hard in Hightown'."

"But why?" The Captain of the Guard let her gaze sweep across the room as if she expected the answer to reveal itself. "Is this the work of an insane book fan or a critic? Someone who got upset about the plagiarism and decided this was the best way to support their favorite author? If he hadn't maneuvered the Inquisition to look into this, Varric would be my first suspect."

"That could be the exact purpose of the killer. Perhaps he hopes to implicate the dwarf," Fenris remarked while taking a step back, continuing to study the remains of the magistrate. "The one responsible is not a madman set on recreating literary murders at least. You can rule that out."

"And why is that?"

He shrugged. "In the book the victim that was found this way was a comte, not a magistrate. That seems a detail a fanatic would take into consideration."

"I thought it was a magistrate Donnen found like this," Brennan said, sounding confused. "Wasn't there a dead magistrate in the book?"

"There was, but his body was outside, somewhere in Hightown." Fenris glanced up, inadvertently meeting Aveline's eyes. She looked like she was unable to decide whether to be grateful for his contribution to the speculation on the murderer's identity and motive or that he had just dropped considerably in her esteem because he was familiar with the dwarf's work.

He looked away again. Once he had gotten wind of the existence of the reading lessons with Hawke, Varric had "gifted" Fenris copies of his novels. He had read several – including 'Hard in Hightown' – with Hawke, who had somehow discovered a copy of his own on a shelf before that. The dwarf's depiction of Aveline and other companions of Hawke had provided a lot of entertainment. Being a faster reader than his student, Hawke had been choking on his sip of wine well in advance of Fenris reaching the passage in which Varric had turned him into the brooding, murderously glowering bartender of the Hanged Man. When Fenris got to reading that part out loud, Hawke had lost the struggle with himself and spat out his drink, howling with laughter. The cursed dwarf had not even changed his name, unlike with Aveline or Isabela.

Feeling his mouth twitch in a smile, Fenris scowled and pushed the memory away. That was from another time, another life. The man from that memory no longer existed. Keeping him alive by reliving moments like these was a mistake he refused to make. Despite stemming from an overall hazy period, the vision of Hawke walking away and closing the bedroom door, the sound of his own voice screaming the mage's name and the rattling of chains, the sensation of Danarius' old collar around his neck, were burned vividly in his mind. That was what Hawke was capable of now, was what he had become. Recollections of fonder moments they had shared should not, _would not_, soften his view.

He forced his attention back to the dead magistrate. He was certain of the mix-up with the death of the comte in Varric's book because Hawke had enjoyed entertaining the thought that Varric had fictionally murdered the magistrate he had taken a job for to bring back an escaped criminal. The criminal turned out to be a mentally disturbed individual who felt compelled to torture and murder elven girls on command of the "demons" whispering in his mind, crimes he had escaped punishment for several times already thanks to being the son of the very magistrate who had hired Hawke. With renewed interest Fenris attempted to study the corpse's face. He had not been present when Hawke took the job, nor when he returned to his employer to inform him that the criminal would not harm anyone else in the future. He had only aided in tracking the man down.

"Is this magistrate the same as the one Hawke took a job for?" There was the slightest quiver in his voice before he spoke Hawke's name, a sign of hesitation he hoped had escaped Aveline's notice.

Before she could reply, movement behind her caught his eye. It was the elven guard who had come to Aveline's door with Brennan to inform the Guard-Captain of their discovery of magistrate Camring's death, and whom he had thought to recognize from somewhere he could not place. Now she paled at his question before quickly averting her face, comprehension dawned on Fenris. This was the girl they had encountered in the old underground tunnels when they searched for the criminal. With the connection made he could even recall her name: Lia.

Oblivious to his realization and the reaction of the elven guardswoman, Aveline shook her head. " No, that bastard was Lord Vanard. Not that Lord Camring was necessarily much better. It all tends to be the same with nobles."

"Another corrupt politician?"

"Nothing that stuck out. Favors for friends, pulling strings for family members, the usual. Not something that warrants murder. But if he was involved in spreading a story plagiarized from Varric, he had a strange hobby."

"There were no signs of forced entry," Brennan informed them. "Either the murderer was allowed into the house - and considering how we found him and that the servants haven't reported any visitors, that doesn't seem likely - or this was the work of a professional. It could just be Coterie. Maybe one of their hitmen decided to get creative and the book doesn't have anything to do with the motive. I'll let Cullen know that Varric should watch his back anyway."

Fenris moved away from the closet and the dead magistrate to explore the adjacent office. On the desk lay a copy of 'Hard in Hightown 3: The Repunchening'. With one hand he flipped through the pages, but his thoughts failed to focus on the words. Varric and his novels, the Inquisition, Cullen, Lia, everything seemed to remind him of the one person he would rather not think of. Everything and everyone appeared tied to Hawke in some way. Even his ability to read the words of this plagiarized work of fiction was thanks to the mage. Hawke was inextricably tied to his life, and would forever be. His gaze went to his marked fingers on the pages. Just like Danarius. Both mages had left their lasting mark on him, though in different ways.

A flash of Hawke turning away after chaining him shot through his mind again. _Perhaps not so different after all._

There were times he still could not believe the mage in those dark memories was the same as the one who had spat wine over himself from not being able to contain his laughter. The same as the one he had fallen for. As the one who had taken care of him in the months, years, that dementia had rendered him near helpless. Like the reading lessons and the aid freely offered against Danarius and his associates they appeared acts befitting a different person, a different kind of man. Selflessness was a thing not known to maleficarum, those who had forsaken everything simply to increase their power. Perhaps those seemingly kind deeds had hidden darker ulterior motives, like Donnic had suggested. He should not find that idea as difficult to accept as he did.

Fenris shook his head. There was no use guessing Hawke's thoughts and motivations. It did not change what had happened. That was what he should keep in mind. Not waste time on pondering excuses and memories stemming from blissfully ignorant times. Better to not think about it at all and focus on his recovery. His condition was gradually improving, the rigorous training truly beginning to pay off. Cause for hope. He would just have to focus on that. Focus on anything but Hawke.

He turned his attention to the pages in front of him. Like a bizarre literary murder on a magistrate responsible for spreading a plagiarized book based on Varric's work. A situation strange enough to warrant a book of its own.

* * *

A slave did not concern himself with his own wants and needs. Hunger, thirst, tiredness, all were secondary to the master's desires. Master's approval and satisfaction was what he craved and what sustained him. Serving, pleasing Master was what mattered. What would he do without commands anyway? Commands gave purpose. They told him what the next hour would bring. How would he know otherwise?

Like now.

Fenris did not know what to do now. Nor did he know where he was. He did not recognize this house nor its furnishings. Was this his master's home? No, it could not be. Should it not be familiar then? Master's home was his home and he knew what his home looked like. Right? Yes, of course he would know if this was his home. But where was he then? How had he come here? And where was his master? He should always be by Master's side, to fulfill Master's wishes. He could not follow commands if Master was not nearby. He was a slave and a slave needed a master. Without master there was nothing, was _he_ nothing.

How had he lost sight of his master? He should always be by Master's side... Had they moved recently? Were they visiting an associate? Or was he here on his own to follow a command? That thought sent a flash of panic through him and made the confusion burn brighter, sharper. Was he supposed to fulfill one of Master's wishes and had he forgotten it? How could that have happened? Why did he not know where he was, how he had gotten here? He could not disappoint Master and fail to follow orders. Displeasing the master was the worst thing a slave could do. It meant failing his sole purpose. Failing your only purpose made you useless. Useless slaves were punished or cast out. Being cast out meant losing the master. Without master there was nothing.

Had Master already rejected him and cast him out for his failures? Was that why he was in this unfamiliar place with no sign of his master? Franticly he quickened his pace, rushing down a flight of stairs. He had to find his master. Maybe if he found Master in time he would be taken back. Maybe it was not too late. He did not want to be nothing. He was a slave, Master's pet, little wolf. Slave.

Voices coming from one of the rooms sparked hope. Fenris followed them with fearfully beating heart. They turned out to originate from the kitchen. A woman with flaming orange hair tied into a short, loose ponytail and a man with dark brown hair reaching till his neck and bushy sideburns were talking to each other. Neither noticed him when he peered around the door post.

"Those Inquisition forces are sticking their nose in the murder investigation. Independently interrogating neighbors and poking around the crime scene under the banner of "aiding" the official investigation," the human woman groused. "Bran doesn't want to send them away, but this is the duty of the Guard. It's insulting that the Inquisition apparently believes we can't find the murderer on our own. We shouldn't be hindered by unwanted aid and we shouldn't have to concern ourselves with appeasing a foreign holy organization. I have enough ass to kiss without the Inquisition mooning me as well."

The man failed to fully bite back a smile. "You realize what you just said is an open invitation for a crude joke."

She gave him a mild shove against his shoulder. "Fortunately my husband has better taste than that."

Uncertainly Fenris watched their movements. Was she his mistress and the man his master? Without knowing why, he searched for a staff but only saw a sword and shield strapped to the man's back. The man was in full armor. He looked down at himself. Should he not be wearing armor as well? Where was his weapon? Was he not supposed to fight? And if these people were his master and mistress, should they not appear more familiar then? How could he not recognize his master? Master was the most important, without master there were no orders, no purpose, nothing. Why could he not remember the face of his purpose? Had he been cast out and were they his new owners? How could he not be certain? What was going on?

"We will solve the case, love. We'll prove to the Inquisition that the Kirkwall Guard doesn't need their meddling to get results."

"Let's hope you're right," she said with a sigh. "You'd think that Corypheus and those demon-spitting holes he created give them enough to deal with. Let them concern themselves with that."

Inquisition, Corypheus, Kirkwall. Fenris felt as though he should recognize those names, like he should recognize the couple in the room. Why could he not remember how he got here? How could he not be certain what the face of his master looked like? He did not know what was expected of him, what he was supposed to do. Should he come forward to make his presence known so he could receive new commands? No, that was not right. Slaves should not disturb their betters when they were otherwise engaged. Interrupting their conversation because he could not recall what to do, was wrong. So should he simply remain here, wait until he was noticed?

Crippled by uncertainty he stood there, warring with fear, indecision and more fear. What should he do? He had to choose but he was not supposed to. There was not supposed to be a choice, only obedience.

"Maybe the Inquisitor believes that with Andraste on her side she is bound to defeat Corypheus. She might be right. It would be comforting to think that she and the Maker still care about what happens to us." The brown-haired man fell silent for a moment. "Speaking of the Inquisition and Corypheus... a letter arrived today." He picked up a folded piece of paper from the table to draw attention to it. Fenris could not see his face very well but the distaste in his master's voice was audible. "From Hawke."

"I saw. He's heading to the Western Approach with Stroud and the Inquisition to look into the disappearance of the Wardens. It seems his suspicions were correct. It's almost certain that Corypheus is affecting their minds." She glanced away. "I hope Carver is alright."

Hawke. The name sparked recognition. For one heartbeat, two, his mind teetered on the edge, still in splinters. Then the pieces began to melt together into coherence. Hawke, Carver, Wardens, Inquisition, Corypheus. Hawke had joined up with the Inquisition out of concern for his younger brother, Carver, because the Wardens were susceptible to Corypheus' mind control abilities. He remembered who he was, where he was.

Having his memory, his entire sense of self, returned to him so suddenly was disorienting. He brought a hand to the wooden doorpost, the contact in a way aiding in grounding him in the present. Slowly he managed to focus on the conversation between Aveline and Donnic again.

"He wrote that he doesn't know yet how much longer it will take to kill Corypheus and for him to return." A pause before Donnic added: "For Fenris' sake it would be better if he doesn't come back at all."

"Perhaps, but we both know he will come back."

"And what then? Are you just going to allow a blood mage to take our friend with him again, to Maker-knows-where?"

"I didn't see many other options last time," Aveline replied with an edge to her tone.

"The same number of options as when Hawke showed up at our doorstep to drop Fenris off without warning? We should have let him come with us from the start, Aveline! Fenris is doing so much better. He's lucid for much longer nowadays. The blood mage is away and there is improvement. Do you really think that's a coincidence?"

"I don't know," she admitted reluctantly. "But if we refuse to let Hawke leave with Fenris, we have to be prepared for the situation to get out of hand. Hawke..." She fell silent when Fenris entered the kitchen, took position on the opposite side of the table and crossed his arms, gaze shifting between her and Donnic.

"Whether I go with Hawke, stay with you, or go my own way, will be my decision." Anger and indignation over having plans about him forged behind his back made his voice heavy, but nevertheless Fenris succeeded in appearing calm. "I fought for my freedom from Danarius. I refuse to be chained again and have choices removed from my hands. Your hospitality and kindness have formed a debt I will never be able to repay, but my freedom will not be used to balance the scale."

"We would never ask-"

He did not grant Donnic the chance to elaborate. "I am not a child and I am not a slave. Do not try to decide for me again."

Grabbing the letter Donnic had dropped back on the table, Fenris turned on his heel. There was nothing more to say on the matter. Although he realized that Aveline and Donnic meant well and were concerned about his well-being, it angered him to hear them talk as if he was still incapable of being involved in decisions concerning his own life and would remain that way. He might have just suffered a lapse in his memory, slipping back into dementia, but to have his agency taken away, even with good intentions... He would not let that happen again. He would be free again, and nobody else would choose for him, in his name, for his sake.

"Fenris."

He did not stop and turn around until Aveline called his name a second time. Barely preventing himself from telling her that he did not wish to discuss this any further, he looked at her and waited for what she had to say. Prepared to snap if she was out to change his mind.

To his surprise the words "You're right," were the first out of her mouth. "We shouldn't have talked about you like that. We don't get to decide what is best for you. It's your life and you are capable of voicing what you want to do. You deserve to know the truth to be able to make a decision. " She paused to take a deep breath, her green eyes meeting his with a seriousness which seemed even more grave than her normally composed behavior. "You already know that Donnic is concerned about Hawke's role in your condition. What we encountered in Minrathous did not exactly inspire confidence. I still don't dare to say what happened there one way or the other, but I do know that Hawke was changed by it and that he is prepared to go far to keep you by his side. We wanted you to come with us since Tevinter. Hawke suspected our intentions and before we left the Silent Plains he "warned" me that he would kill Donnic if we tried to take you to Kirkwall and away from him."

A threat. A threat to take the life of the husband of one of his oldest friends. Behavior befitting a blood mage. It really should not come as a surprise and it irritated Fenris that he had not seen this coming nonetheless. Why had he not heard of this sooner? "I have never heard Donnic about this."

"I never told him." At Fenris' skeptical expression, she elaborated: "It wouldn't have changed anything. I chose to allow Hawke to take you with him, not out of fear for a threat, but because of the debt I owed him. I nearly lost my husband to that choice but the decision and responsibility were mine. Maybe I chose wrong; I'm sorry if I did. The next choice will be yours to make."

He watched the Captain of the Guard walk away, likely back to her kitchen. Frustration, anger, fear, disappointment, that entire boiling mixture of emotions had drained away, leaving him feeling numb. Empty. He did not realize he had clenched his hands into fists and crumpled the letter until his fingers were beginning to hurt.


	12. Chapter 12

After a quick chat with Varric Hawke walked through Skyhold's main hall and throne room. Today the Inquisitor and a selection of her allies would follow the troops which had been deployed to the Western Approach a month ago, the area where, apparently, the Grey Wardens of southern Thedas were gathering. And undoubtedly were up to no good under the influence of Corypheus' false Calling.

With five hundred miles to travel there was a long journey ahead. A journey which was supposed to be made considerably faster and easier by travelling on horseback – but in Damian's case was more likely to be the exact opposite. For the trip to Crestwood he had gotten away with going on foot and occasionally piggybacking on the carts transporting equipment and supplies, but since Stroud's reveal of their next destination Damian had realized that strategy was not going to work this time around. The few lessons he had taken from Dennet, Skyhold's Horsemaster, had not improved his confidence in this manner of transport. As it turned out, his ability to handle chickens and mabari hounds did not extend to dealing with horses. Horses liked him as much as mules and the feeling was mutual. He would have to hope that his mount would be satisfied to follow the rest of the traveling group.

His feelings about their impending departure were mixed, and not just because of horses. On the one hand he was glad to get moving again and hopefully track down Corypheus through his involvement with the Wardens. The sooner the ancient magister was dead for good and Damian was free to return to Kirkwall, the better. Which immediately brought him to the origin of his mixed feelings. Weeks had passed since his last letter and still he had not received a single message from Fenris. Or Aveline for that matter. The conflict between the hope that a reply could arrive at any moment now and the possibility he was being ignored was reduced to a pathetic skirmish as hope dwindled and possibility grew into certainty. Part of him – the foolishly optimistic and romantic part he refused to admit he had – continued to hold on to the expectation that Fenris would write when –if – he could. Chances were that the letter would arrive shortly after he left Skyhold for what could be months. The rest of him wondered why the elf would not write back. Was he in no state to, due to his persisting dementia? Had relocating him had an extremely negative impact on his fragile mental state? Or were there periods in which Fenris was perfectly capable of penning a message but chose not to?

"Messere Hawke, Madame de Fer would like to speak with you."

After a bemused look at the elven servant's face, his eyes followed her pointed finger to the balcony above the Inquisitor's throne. Until now he had never noticed the furniture up there. Against the light shining through the open balcony doors he could make out the silhouette of a tall woman in white and dark grey robes, her back turned to the hall. "She's not another Tevinter magister, is she? Or Altus."

The servant blinked. "No, Serah. Madame de Fer is... was... no, I mean is, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Court Enchanter of the Empress."

_Doesn't sound like someone I want to talk to either._ What would that woman want with him? Orlesians tended to be only marginally better than Tevinters. He looked back at the servant and let out a sigh at the expectant look on her face. "Fine. I'll go see her. I still have some time to kill before we leave."

"She will await you on the balcony." Duty – which apparently did not include escorting him to the balcony – fulfilled, the servant disappeared into the crowd bustling about the throne room.

Damian glanced up again. The woman was still facing the window. No look down, in his direction. As if she had no interest in what was taking place beneath her. As if she had not just sent a servant to fetch him and did not care whether he would indulge her or not. Already knowing he was likely to end up regretting it, he turned left to the door which gave access to stairs leading up to the next floor and – he guessed – the balcony.

Although his guess was ultimately correct, it took him a while to actually find the place the First Enchanter of Montsimmard had turned into her living area. Twice Hawke made a round through the library looking for a way to reach her, subjecting himself to dark glares from Dorian, who was lurking in an alcove filled with bookcases. At least he did not get a book chugged at his head. Finally he spotted a door he had overlooked before, hidden between bookcases and tables covered with research items, and stepped onto the balustrade.

Madame de Fer was a stately, regal-looking woman with dark skin that made Rivaini origins more likely than Orlesian. With her shaved head, voluminous lips and prominent cheekbones she made for a striking presence, even without the elaborate outfit she was wearing. The modesty of long sleeves and the high collar covering her neck was negated by the plunging opening below, revealing the smooth skin of her chest and plenty of cleavage. While years in the company of a certain female pirate captain without a ship ensured that Damian would not be fazed unless that neckline went all the way down to her navel and she got rid of her tight leggings, he could not help but cock an eyebrow at the choice of dress. It seemed rather... cold to him for standing near open doors in a fortress located on a snowy mountain top.

One corner of her mouth curled marginally while her grey eyes scrutinized his appearance from the crown of his head to the toes of his boots. "You must be Hawke, the former "Champion" of Kirkwall," she drawled, lacing her voice with enough skepticism to make the title of Champion sound highly questionable.

"I am, though I don't know about the "former" bit. They never really informed me that they've revoked the title. I'm not sure they can even do that." Not that it would make a difference. There was nothing left in Kirkwall that could make him consider it home. "So I take it you're Madame de Fer?"

She laughed softly. "If they left you Champion of the city you not only no longer inhabit but left in ruins as well, their gratitude for getting rid of the Qunari threat must have been tremendous indeed. I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the Imperial Court. Madame de Fer is merely a nickname granted to me by the people at court." She gestured at the seat behind Damian. "Have a seat, my dear. We have not had the chance to speak yet."

He watched her gracefully lower herself on a white reclining chair and drape one arm over the raised end, before sitting down himself. "Should we?"

"I'd think we should, yes. After all, you and your abomination friend blew up Kirkwall's Chantry and unleashed the rebellion that started the war between mages and Templars. Orlais, Ferelden and the Free Marches were plunged into chaos for months. An impressive amount of destruction for a single Fereldan dog lord. I admit to some curiosity to meeting the one responsible in person."

"Currently lacking the dog, but thanks." Vivienne was obviously not another fan thanks to Varric's book. Despite her tone being perfectly poised and calm, he did not have to listen closely to catch the venom in her words. "Not that I expect it to make much of a difference, but I did not approve of Anders' actions. I would never have helped him if I had known what he was planning. He lied and manipulated me into aiding him with his slaughter."

"And yet you openly declared yourself against the Templars when they wished to restore order in response to the death of the Grand Cleric." She managed to sound like she was surprised by this all over again. "An interesting decision, considering your claim that you were tricked into serving as an accomplice to this Anders' act of terrorism. Though not as interesting as the fact that his fate was placed in your hands and your response was to allow the possessed murderer of hundreds to walk free. Surely if he so deviously deceived you, a less merciful approach should have been required."

Damian pressed his lips together. "The mercy was not for the deception and definitely not for the crime."

Vivienne waited a moment, as if she expected he was going to add to that statement, before speaking again. "Not for the deception, not for mass murder – not possibly for the abomination's future victims either, I'm sure. What manner of reasoning could be left? Won't you enlighten me?"

"I owed him a debt. The what or why of it are none of your business." He had Anders to thank for Carver's survival – questionable as it seemed now. Without him, his maps, his knowledge of the Wardens' location in the Deep Roads, they would never have reached Stroud in time. Would never even have known the Wardens offered the chance to escape death from the Blight sickness to begin with. Thanks to Anders and Stroud he still had a family member left, and Damian had found himself unable to execute Anders in the wake of his crime. Not because they used to be friends, not because he was remotely forgiving of the act of terrorism he had unknowingly been dragged into, but because killing the man who had secured a second chance for his brother was something he had not been able to bring himself to do. Carver's life did not weigh more heavily than that of Elthina and the others Anders' explosion had killed, and Damian could still not say whether staying his hand there had truly been the right thing to do.

Ironically, allowing Anders to leave Kirkwall had both nearly gotten him executed in Minrathous and allowed him to escape the Tevinter capital. Upon discovering Anders' role among the rebellious foreign mages who had fled to Minrathous and refused to leave, the magisters had suspected Hawke's involvement as well, which was sufficient ground to call for his execution as far as they were concerned. They had hoped his public death would discourage the apostates and make them leave, but timely intervention from a confused Fenris and Anders' presence had sparked a battle that had provided cover for escape. All in all they were even now. If Anders was still alive he did not have to assume that Hawke would be an ally.

But none of that was of Vivienne's concern.

"You have a curious sense of morality and justice, my dear," she mocked. "I suppose that explains your choice to fight the Templars as well."

"I stood up to Knight-Commander Meredith because she was out of her mind and wanted to annul the Circle for a crime none of its mages had anything to do with," Damian corrected. "If slaughtering more innocents fits your idea of restoring order, I think our definitions differ. A lot. I didn't want a terrorist attack to make a statement, I didn't want a grand rebellion, and I didn't want to aid in killing mages for the sake of misguided retribution."

"Such fervor to defend a choice you apparently hardly wanted to make. I had expected that degree of passion for the cause to see mages free from the restrictions that protect themselves as well as others. Did the consequences of your actions become too heavy for your liking, my dear? That must be a common occurrence for rash decisions born out of blind idealism."

_She really did not want to meet because she would love to get better acquainted. All this woman seems to be capable of is reminding me of how much better she is with every sentence_. He did not know why she bothered with the facade of proper manners. At this point it would be almost refreshing to have someone be completely straight and just tell him what they thought of him without all the games and pretense around it. That was, if he had not gotten sick of having to deal with elitists of any kind a long time ago. Now he just wanted the snobs to leave him be and stop rubbing their superiority under his nose. "Did I get told to come up here to see you just so you could insult me?"

"Nonsense, dear!" Vivienne smiled a smile no scheming magister or noble could hope to perfect in its polite way of displaying utter contempt, dismissing Hawke's angry look with a wave of her hand. "It's not your fault, I'm sure. How could a Fereldan apostate possibly grasp the machinations in the world of politics, better left to more knowledgeable Knight-Commanders, First-Enchanters, Grand Clerics and the Divine? It must seem so simple to someone who grew up in some backwater village, free to set fire to piles of leaves and freeze puddles of mud. Why should every mage not be allowed to do the same? Reaching an informed, rational decision that considers the greater good of all is impossible for most of the uneducated. There's no shame in that, as long as they don't go about starting revolutions."

"So I take it you're not happy the Circle you were First Enchanter of no longer exists," he remarked dryly.

"The Circles will be restored soon enough, don't worry. Thanks to you and the other rebels, mages have reminded everyone of the danger they pose for ages to come. Few will support the call for freedom now."

His eyebrows rose. "That sounds pretty smug coming from someone who is a mage herself and will get locked up again when the Circles return. You have no issue with that?"

"None at all. The Circles are a necessity, one only the selfish and the foolish clamor against," she replied calmly. "Imagine how many lives would have been saved if certain apostates had been tracked down by Templars and remained in the Circle where they belong."

One of those apostates being him, obviously. He opened his mouth for a biting retort, but the dark-skinned mage was faster.

"How disappointing it must be to see the war you were the most renowned symbol for, end with the mages returned to their leash by the Inquisition." With another nonchalant wave of her hand she dismissed him. "I believe my curiosity has been satisfied. Run along now, dear."

Damian stared at her for a long moment, angry replies rolling around in his head, but he ended up turning and walking away without voicing any of them. The time he had left before departing to the Western Approach was better spent getting a drink. Maybe two.

* * *

The Western Approach was as dry and hot as Crestwood had been wet and cold. Nothing but sandy slopes for miles, interrupted only by rock formations and lots of aggressive predators Damian had never seen before but soon learned were called varghests, phoenixes and hyenas. Their feral attacks, persistence and habit to charge on sight made them a real nuisance. Not much of an improvement after the undead.

Whether the company could be considered an improvement was a matter still up for debate as well. On the positive side, he could be fairly certain that Stroud was not about to kill him. In that regard this Warden's presence was preferable to that of Nathaniel. On the other, the silence they persisted in ever since they had been assigned to venture ahead to the location Stroud believed a group of Wardens was gathering was plain awkward and filled with tension. After Hawke's strong "difference of opinion" with Dorian, Varric, deaf to counter arguments and explanations that all he had done was go for a drink and Dorian was the one who had been insisting on conversation, had urged to keep to himself and not go around Skyhold picking fights. In the end Damian had to admit that there was nothing to be gained from arguing with Stroud about Carver and Warden secrets. His brother was still laying low, as safe as he could be given the circumstances. Demanding explanations which went beyond "oath of secrecy" would not get them closer to stopping Corypheus. So he had not sought out the solitary Warden, neither on the battlements nor during the long journey to the far west of Orlais.

They halted on yet another sand dune. Stroud shielded his eyes against the sun with his right hand and peered into the distance. The desert landscape was difficult to traverse, their feet sinking into the loose sand with each step, but despite the heat and still being clad in his Warden armor he showed no sign of weariness. Damian was already starting to miss his mount. Riding might have left him sore all the time but at least he was able to heal those discomforts.

"Hawke, could you be so kind as to give me my map so I can check if we're close to our destination?"

He felt his face grow even warmer than it already was under that blasted sun. Stroud had spoken so casually, eyes still on the sand ahead of them, as if he had merely requested a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his brow. Damian could not detect anger or even irritation in the Warden's voice. He considered denying that he knew what Stroud was talking about, but ultimately they were on the same side, respective personal interests notwithstanding.

With a sigh he dug the map from the pouch on his belt and handed it to Stroud, who unfolded and studied it for a while in silence. After finding what he was looking for, he nodded and began to fold the map again, glancing at Damian.

"There is an old ritual tower not far from here, in southwestern direction. That would match the scout's report of Warden activity in that area." He held out the map for Hawke. "I suspect that is where they were headed."

Damian stared at the neatly folded parchment, then at Stroud. "You're giving it back to me?" he asked, cautiously taking the map.

"These are trying, uncertain times. Perhaps it's better for someone who is not part of the Order to have it." Stroud's gaze drifted to where the tower should be, still hidden from view by the Approach' barren landscape. For a few heartbeats his normally calm, stoic appearance seemed to crack and Damian thought he could see a glimpse of something raw beneath. Something concealed, suppressed with iron will, but slowly eroding the Warden's restraint. He wondered if Stroud was hearing that Calling right now, if he had his death – or the illusion of it – sing to him in his head as they stood there.

He did not ask.

"You're not thinking of switching sides, are you?" he jokingly inquired instead. "That plan of Clarel you mentioned sounds doomed in its ambition."

Stroud smiled faintly. "Permanently ending the Blights is the dream of every Warden. To rid the world of darkspawn and finally be able to lay down our weapons for good." The smile was replaced by a frown and he began to descend down the slope. "But to seek out the remaining Old Gods and kill them before they are Tainted... Even if Weisshaupt committed to this goal as well and sent all of our forces into the Deep Roads, I don't know if we could accomplish such a thing. Perhaps we would only lead the darkspawn straight to one of the Old Gods and unleash a new Blight. If Corypheus wants us to do this, the plan cannot be trusted."

"Corypheus was once a priest to Dumat. Maybe he hasn't caught on yet to the fact that Dumat was the first Archdemon and hopes to use the Wardens to find him?" A darkspawn magister digging up an Archdemon for a partnership. That sure was one way to make everything infinitely worse.

"I hope we will find out."

It took them another hour before the ritual tower became visible. With the tall rock columns ending in a sharp point, positioned around the back of the construction, it reminded Damian more of a claw sticking out of the sand than a tower. _Who built this thing? _Two statues he could vaguely make out looked very similar to those in the Gallows in Kirkwall, the ones that had suddenly come to life during the fight against Meredith. So the structure was of Tevinter origin? That could mean Corypheus had sent the Wardens here. _Let's hope the statues stay put this time._

Sitting on the edge of a steep ravine, the tower could only be approached from the front, where a bridge had been built to cross the natural trench. By the gate – or what was left of it, parts of the wall having crumbled over time – on their side of the ravine were two Grey Wardens keeping watch. The bow they both held ready suggested they would not allow anyone to get close to the bridge. Although the distance was still too large to see much of their faces, it was clear they did not turn their heads away and continued to look in the direction of Hawke and Stroud.

"They've already seen us." Damian pulled his staff from his back. "We have to get a little closer but I should be able to take them down before we get within reach of their arrows."

"Wait. Do not kill them." At Hawke's incredulous look, Stroud shook his head. "We cannot be certain yet of what is going on. Perhaps they are not our enemy..."

"If we approach them, they will shoot us," he pointed out. "I don't have to be a mind-reader to see that. _Maybe_ your armor will allow us to get closer but if they recognize you, the best we can hope for is capture. There were Wardens hunting you in Crestwood as well, and not because they'd love to have a friendly chat with you. So unless you can guarantee me that those two are a lot nicer than they look from a distance..."

Stroud lowered his head in defeat. "I cannot."

He did not say anything else and Damian could see the conflict playing in his mind. While he had already made his choice when he disagreed with his commander's plan, to truly turn on his fellow Wardens was a decision Stroud evidently struggled with.

Damian let out a sigh. "I'll use a sleeping spell."

He successfully cast the spell and put the two archers to sleep before they fired off any arrows. With Stroud by his side he hurried to the gate and the bridge beyond. The bridge led straight to a set of stairs, which gave access to the ritual tower's only level, making it more of an elevated platform rather than a true tower.

Semantics aside, the straight path combined with the elevation ensured that the Wardens standing on the platform would spot them as soon as they dared to cross the bridge. One look over the edge of the ravine confirmed that climbing down and up again on the other side was not an option. The abyss was far too deep, the rocks too smooth to get a proper grip and footing. Around them the terrain was fairly flat, with the nearest hilltop too far away to take position on and be able to see what the Wardens were doing. Their only remaining option was to climb the gate itself. The massive walls had crumbled on both sides but what was left appeared sturdy enough.

Damian let Stroud go first and the Warden scaled the wall – staying as much on their side of it as possible to avoid being seen – with surprising ease for someone with a two-handed blade and a metal breastplate strapped to his body. Briefly the completely redundant question whether Fenris would have climbed up with a similar lack of difficulty shot through his mind. It seemed likely.

The pillars placed in each corner on top of the gate provided excellent cover. Damian hid behind one on the left and peered around it. He could make out twelve Wardens on the tower, six in an orderly line on each side, as well as one man in white robes and – judged by the glints of sunlight reflected by the material – leg and arm guards. The unknown man finished talking – though Damian could not hear what he said – and climbed the steps to a small section of the tower that was higher than the rest of it, almost like a stage. He motioned to the first Warden on the right.

The Warden turned to the person next to him, came to stand close to the helmed man or woman and raised an arm to the other's chest. For a moment both stood motionless. If they were speaking to each other, it was too quiet to hear. Then the man abruptly turned away and raised his other hand. A bolt of lightning arced from his palm to the robed leader, who stumbled back in surprise. Yet the magical shield he must have cast earlier shimmered and absorbed the Warden's spell.

As the other Wardens recovered from their surprise at what was clearly an unanticipated action from their brother in arms, the order from moments ago morphed into chaos. A mage who had been standing on the left side of the platform came to the attacker's aid and fired a spell at the man in the white robes as well, but the rest of the group appeared to disagree with the stance of the two mages. They drew their weapons or prepared a spell of their own and turned on their comrades.

Damian looked to Stroud, who was crouched behind the pillar to his right. "They're attacking each other?"

It was more a statement of the obvious than a question that warranted an answer, and Stroud's bewildered expression suggested he had no reply to begin with. Damian half expected him to insist they would join the fight but the Warden remained silent. As long as they had no clue what the reason behind the conflict was it would be foolish to rush to the tower and pick a side at random. And no matter which group they would support, Damian doubted it would make a difference. The two mages were outnumbered and the element of surprise did not suffice to make the fight turn in their favor. The man who had attacked first was overwhelmed by the Warden warriors and was run through with their blades. The second mage managed to knock two fighters over the balustrade with a blast of force magic, making them plummet to their deaths in the depths down below, but was consequently hit in the back by a burst of lightning from the man wearing white robes. Electricity coursing through his limbs left him standing cramped, rendered helpless now his muscles refused to obey his will. His life, too, was swiftly ended by a warrior's sword.

In silence the eight Wardens who had survived returned to their positions, four on both sides of the platform. Several stood with their heads bowed, the only sign indicating they were shocked – or at the very least bothered – by what had just transpired, as far as Damian could tell from a distance. The leader, on the other hand, merely appeared annoyed by it. He made an angry dismissive gesture before motioning to the next Warden dressed in mage armor to continue whatever had been interrupted.

Like before, the Warden mage turned to the warrior next to her. She brought a hand to the man's neck, something in her hand catching the sunlight as she moved. For a while nothing seemed to happen. Then everything suddenly went very fast again. The warrior collapsed to his knees, grasping at his neck. Only in hindsight Damian realized that the mage must have slit his throat. Slowly the Warden sank to the floor completely, head resting on the stones of the tower and his face still concealed by a winged helmet.

Damian sensed the flow of powerful magical energies before he focused his attention back on the mage who had killed her fellow Warden without apparent cause or provocation. From this distance the effects of her spell were considerably weaker but they made his skin prickle nonetheless. That raw power, gathered and focused by magic, fleeting but so strong while it could be harnessed, was unmistakable. His own magic surged and pulled in response to the weakening Veil. He imagined that he could smell the blood in the air, although the Wardens were too far away for that to be possible.

"Maker's mercy," Stroud whispered.

The hunched figure roughly shaped like a human wearing robes around the waist that rose from the ground was not even needed to confirm what he already knew: this was blood magic. His stomach turned, either at the knowledge that the Wardens had resorted to this of all desperate acts they could have chosen, or because he could not deny the flutter of longing to control that kind of power once more. To wield it, shape it, surrender to it...

"This is part of Clarel's plan? Have our mages kill warriors to exchange Wardens for demons?"

"That's not all they're doing," Damian muttered. The demon moved to the Warden mage's side, a disturbing imitation of the human fighter who had been standing there minutes earlier. Initially he dismissed what he saw when the mage turned her head as another effect of the sunlight reflecting in a bit of metal, but it did not match her movements, the angles at which the light caught. He was too damned far away to see it clearly, but he could swear a red glow emanated from her face, about where her eyes should be. Something was not right. More "not right" than the Wardens killing each other to summon demons. A human sacrifice, all that power, just for one shade?

"A shade is the form of some of the lowest demons, Hunger or Sloth," he told Stroud. "To use all of one's life force to summon and bind one of those seems a waste. It makes no sense. If they'd sought out a Veil tear they should have managed to bind stronger demons. Some – most – of the spell's power was used for something else."

The warrior's body was dragged to that of the mage who had started the fight earlier and left there. His killer did not even seem to glance in the corpse's direction, staring straight ahead with her new companion hovering next to her. Silence, a moment of calm. The man in white robes made another encouraging motion with his hand, this time to the Wardens next in line on the right.

The gruesome procedure was repeated, with identical results. A Warden mage killed a warrior, using his life's blood to draw a shade into the physical world and bind it to obedience. Again there was a hint of red that lit up in the caster's face before he turned and it was no longer visible from the side. Sitting up on that stupid gate, hidden behind a pillar to watch the sacrifices, made Damian feel sick. Would this have been Carver's fate if Stroud had not been convinced to send him away? Led to his slaughter like a lamb to serve as fuel for one bloody shade? Was that truly what the most renowned order of fighters had been reduced to in their panic over Corypheus' mind games?

Corypheus... There was no sign of the ancient magister, but would he not have a hand in this twisted ritual? Was the Wardens binding demons something he wanted? Suspicion gnawing at him, Damian focused on the group's leader. He did not have a shade by his side and with the premature deaths of two Warden warriors there were not enough Wardens left for every mage to have a sacrifice. A miscalculation, or had he simply left his pet demon at home? But this man was no Warden, or at least he did not appear to be one.

Something was wrong. The way the two mages who had bound their shade were standing there, perfectly still... Somehow it did not look natural, seemed different from the Wardens on the left. Like something had been lost.

He swallowed. "I think there is mind control involved. The demons are not the only ones getting bound. The mages are reducing themselves to someone else's slaves. My coin is on Corypheus."

"How can you be certain of..." Stroud trailed off, his attention drawn to something behind Hawke. "A small group is approaching. That must be the Inquisitor."

Carefully they made the climb down the side of the gate, though it seemed doubtful that the Wardens' attention was currently on anything but the ritual that could mean their doom.


	13. Chapter 13

"Do you recognize this?" Donnic held the knife out to the merchant, who took several seconds to silently study the object.

Fenris let his gaze wander over the swords, axes and daggers displayed on the stall. Intricately curved and decorated guards, pommels adorned with precious stones or forged into a figurine of some kind, finely engraved hilts and every blade forged from obsidian, veridium, silverite or other high quality metals, made it abundantly clear that the merchant was located in Hightown and solely peddled wares for customers with considerable coin at their disposal. Some of the weapons looked cumbersome in their extensive decoration and seemed to be intended for appearances rather than lethal purpose on the field of battle. Fenris moved his attention to the more practical offerings on display, likely intended for knights and nobles who took actual fighting skills seriously. Staring at the two-handed swords he felt vulnerable, frail with the absence of a blade's trusted weight on his back. He was currently still not carrying any weapons. As long as he suffered from lapses in clarity he could not risk having a blade on him. He had to begrudgingly admit that Hawke had been right in that regard.

The episodes of dementia did continue to decrease in frequency as well as duration. Not enough to dare leave the confines of Aveline's and Donnic's house on his own, but trips like this had gone well so far. At the very least they formed a welcome disruption from staying in the same place all the time—an uncomfortable throwback to the years he had squatted in Danarius' mansion, venturing outside online when necessity, usually Hawke, dictated—but Fenris considered them a necessity in his struggle to recovery. He would never be able to claim his mind had reclaimed past resilience again if he only ever stayed within the safety of four walls.

"Aye, this comes from my shop," the merchant finally said. "Forged by my own daughter. She has proven an excellent craftswoman."

"Do you remember whom you sold it to?" Donnic inquired.

The merchant scratched his chin. "A dwarf, but I don't know his name."

"Whoever purchased this knife is likely responsible for the murder on magistrate Camring. It's important that you tell me everything you remember about this dwarf."

"I already said I don't know his name." The man did not look pleased with the news that one of his weapons had been used to take the life of a high-ranking official. "He was a dwarf. Blue-eyed, beardy like all dwarves are. I believe his hair was black... or dark brown."

_An eloquent description of likely one third of the dwarven population in Kirkwall._ "Was he short as well?"

His sarcasm was not missed and rewarded with a glare from the merchant.

Fenris knew of more than one dwarf who matched that description, Anso being one of them. Though he had not seen the lyrium smuggler again after using him as a contact to arrange for armed bait to be sent to the house in the Alienage which presumably contained information about his family. The bait turning out to be Hawke and two of his associates, of course. After all these years Fenris was still not certain whether to thank Anso for his choice of mercenary or to curse him to the Void.

_"Had I known Anso would find me a man so capable, I might have asked him to look sooner."_

_"You sound like you're about to ask for a loan."_

_Of all the things to remember... and it would be too much to ask that something other than exchanges with Hawke are permanently burned in my mind. _

"Anything else?" Donnic sounded deflated by the lack of solid leads.

Realizing he had allowed his thoughts to wander in a forbidden direction once again, Fenris dragged them back to the present. He should focus, had to remain focused on here, now. A wandering mind was a weakness, especially now.

"He seemed to be in a good mood and was very talkative. Forgive me, guardsman, it's been a while. I don't rightly recall what he said." The merchant wrecked his memory for a moment. "He did mention runecrafting and the Merchant's Guild. That stood out to me because those dwarven Guild members usually come across as moody and haggle so mercilessly that you'd think they had to sell their family to be able to afford the price you're asking. Compared to that, this dwarf was oddly cheerful. Didn't haggle much either." An apologetic look crossed his face. "I have no idea where his shop would be, though, if he has one. I'm relatively new to Hightown; I used to have my stall down at the Gallows. You know..." his gaze briefly went to Fenris, "before the destruction of the Chantry and that whole business between Meredith and the Champion."

"Thankfully order has been restored since then," Donnic remarked mildly.

The merchant snorted derisively in response. "Has it? Everybody knows the Gallows are still haunted. Likely by Meredith's ghost and all the mages and Templars who died in that battle. I couldn't even reclaim any of my wares and considered getting out of the business entirely for a while. I only recently set up shop here."

"Ways to remove the remnants of the battle against the Knight-Commander are still being investigated," the guardsman replied. "I thank you for your cooperation. Should you remember anything else about the man who purchased the knife, please report it to the City Guard."

They bid one another a good day. After a last, slightly melancholic look at the two-handed blades, Fenris turned away from the stall and caught up to Donnic. Although a sword had been his weapon of choice for years, previously the complete lack of one had not meant that he was absent weapons. Danarius' markings had ensured he was a living weapon himself. But not anymore. Now the lyrium under his skin was lifeless, the markings useless. Nothing but scars without purpose.

"People continue to connect my likeness to Hawke," he grumbled.

Donnic gave him an amused look. "You do tend to stand out. None of the other extensively tattooed elves quite have your nose."

"Very funny." Because he already regretted addressing the matter and did not know what else to say about it he changed the subject back to the murder investigation. "Are there any suspects based on what the merchant remembered?"

"I can't say I have ever had to deal with the dwarven Merchant's Guild, so I'm not really familiar with their members. The runecrafting sounds like it should be good lead, however. There aren't a lot of those around."

"If the murderer is part of the Merchant's Guild Varric might know which members fit the merchant's description."

Donnic nodded. "True. Contacting him may be worthwhile. Though I'm sure someone of the Inquisition will also pass the information along."

* * *

Brennan's fist descended on the polished wooden front door with a loud bang. "Open up! Kirkwall City Guard!" She hammered on the door several times more, leaving a modest dent where her steel knuckles connected with the painted surface.

When she paused her aggressive knocking, approaching footsteps could be heard. There was a moment of silence in which nothing happened. Brennan clearly contemplated banging on the door again and already raised her arm just when the hinges squeaked softly and the door swung back inside. A dwarf with vivid blue eyes and a wide nose stared at the small contingent of guards on his doorstep. His dark brown hair was parted in the middle, a beard reaching almost till his chest and a thick mustache which had been braided on both sides obscured his jaw-line and chin from view.

"Worthy, you're hereby under arrest for the murder on magistrate Camring." While she gave him a quick rundown of what remained of his rights Worthy's face gradually went from slightly pink to a deep shade of crimson.

His composure broke when Donnic and Brennan approached with handcuffs. "What are you doing!" he exclaimed in a gravelly voice. "Where is your proof? This is ridiculous!"

"Your knife was the murder weapon." Aveline looked thoroughly unfazed by the runecrafter's temper. Though her presence was not required for the arrest, curiosity had made her accompany the four guards and Fenris to Worthy's home. Fenris could not fault her for wanting to bear witness to what had continued to be a bizarre mystery. Everything appeared to indicate the dwarf's guilt but his motive was still unknown, even to Varric. And it seemed that Worthy was not about to make this entire ordeal any less mind-boggling as he furiously resisted his arrest.

"No! No, it was Varric! Varric, I tell you! That bare-faced treacherous duster must have arranged the murder out of envy over the magistrate playing a part in distributing that rival novel. He can't handle fair competition, customer-stealing bronto-licker that he is!"

"So Varric hired an assassin to set up a murder which implicated you as well as himself?" Donnic wrestled with the enraged dwarf to get one of his wrists in a handcuff while Brennan was occupied with the other. "You'll have to explain that one at the Keep."

"I'm not! I won't! He cost me a fortune. I'm not going to let him ruin me completely! All that coin I could have made crafting runes for Kirkwall's Champion and the blighter sabotaged me!"

Fenris exchanged a look with Aveline. _The dwarf obviously loathes Varric. Because of missing out on business from Hawke? _He felt inclined to roll his eyes but managed to resist. Of course even a bizarre murder on a magistrate made to look like a scene from a book was somehow connected to Hawke. He wondered how long it would take for the mage's shadow to dissolve, his memory to fade into obscurity. Evidently more than three years.

"You're confessing to have murdered the magistrate because Hawke stopped making use of your enchantment services? the Guard-Captain questioned with audible disbelief.

"I'm not confessing to anything! I already told you Varric is behind it! Hawke was _my_ contact; I introduced him to the art of runecrafting. And just when that sodding refugee became worth something, he gets introduced to that simpleton with a face like a nug's buttom! Those bare-faced frauds conspired against me. True dwarves have beards!"

Finally having restrained the raving dwarf sufficiently to finish putting him in chains, Donnic dragged Worthy away from his house. Brennan stepped to the side to allow one of the other guards to take her place and assist him. The help was much needed because the runecrafter fought his captors with every step, all the while ranting about his hatred for Varric.

"Stop! I am an honest businessman and a true dwarf! My skills are far greater than those of demented hairless bronto-lickers! My beard is better than their nude chins! I can do everything they can. Lowly envious creatures ruining my profit! I'm the superior runecrafter. I'm the greatest writer in Thedas!"

It felt like an age before he was out of earshot. Fenris, the guards and every bystander unfortunate enough to be in the dwarf's vicinity, stared as Worthy was slowly but surely hauled off. Eventually Aveline turned back, her green eyes wide and perplexed. "I..." she fell silent almost instantly. "Never mind. I don't think anything can be said about this. Let's see if we can find more evidence in his house."

They walked through the still open door into the dwarf's home, a spacious house a couple of streets away from the main Merchants Square. The hallway brought them to the living area, which in turn gave access to several other rooms. Fenris pushed the first door on his left open and found himself in a combination of a study and crafting space. Against one wall stood a work bench. Vials and jars containing lyrium and metals for runecrafting were lined up on shelves; chisels, files, hammers and other tools in a whole range of sizes hung within reach on the wall. Above the tools diagrams of runes had been pinned. Fenris recognized most of them; both Danarius and Hawke had made use of runes' protective and damaging properties, although Hawke had left the choice of which symbol to have engraved in his blade or armor to him rather than dictate what he believed to be necessary. The products of Worthy's workmanship had been packed in crates on the right of the work bench.

The opposite side of the room was occupied by a desk, neat stacks of parchment on its surface. The tidiness of it was largely undone by the well of ink which had fallen over and created a large black stain on the pages. Presumably the dwarf had been penning the next chapter for his story and had been startled by the City Guard banging on his door. Fenris approached the desk and picked up the top ink-soaked page by a corner after turning the ink well back upright. Little could be made out from what had been written, safe for a few sentences at the top.

_Donnen brought his face close to the Carta boss', his eyes fiery coals of fury, his breath carrying the heat of his rage, which the criminal was sure to feel. "Cooperate, you miserable slum-dweller, or I swear I will find evidence for your evil deeds and see you rightly punished for them." His fists clenched tight as a vice. "I will re-punch you."_

_The Carta boss tilted his head in a sign of stinking defiance. "Good sodding luck with that. Your inferiorly bearded face won't leave this place alive."_

Mercifully that was all he could make out. Fenris lowered the piece of parchment, sorely tempted to drop it on the floor. Brennan came up beside him, her attention immediately going to the manuscript in front of her. She let out a snort. "Hard in Hightown four: Furiously Harder. That crock was working on another book!" With a level of eagerness that astounded Fenris she grabbed the stack of parchment and began to flip through the pages. "Robert! Captain! You have to hear this!"

"Is that evidence you're getting so excited about?" Aveline asked skeptically.

Face splitting in a triumphant grin, the guard held up the pages. "The next Hard in Hightown. The dwarf was doing another one. It's even worse than the previous one. Want to hear it?"

"I don't think I do." Aveline shook her head, likely already knowing it was hopeless before the male guard came forward with an enthusiasm matching Brennan's.

"Let me see."

He claimed the other stack and searched for the first page that was not ruined by ink stains. Soon enough the two guards were exchanging outrageous passages they came across, their hilarity increasing with each bizarre, awkward line. "The others have to hear this!"

"That dwarf owes me." The words were said with exasperation but Fenris could see the amusement Aveline tried to conceal in her eyes.

When she left the room again to look around the rest of the house, Fenris wandered back to the work bench and the crates with rune stones. For a while he studied the symbols on the crafting diagrams. A rune to bathe a sword in flames when it struck a blow, one to protect against said flames, a rune that fortified the armor in which it was embedded to shield the wearer from blades, arrows and other injuries induced from blunt force or sharp objects—he had to dig through his memory for it but ultimately could identify all of them. Dragging up those pieces of knowledge from a dark corner of his mind took longer than it should have, than it once had, but Fenris realized that the fact he was able to recognize the runes in the first place was something to be pleased with.

He stepped aside with the intent to escape the exchange of quotes from Worthy's terrible work of fiction and see if Aveline had found anything else of note. And froze almost immediately. Under his bare foot he had felt a click, the stone pushing down almost imperceptibly. Upon shifting his weight back on his other leg the floor tile moved up again. Crouching down for closer inspection he noticed that this particular tile missed the outline of mortar the rest of the floor had. Experimentally he pushed down on the stone and again it lowered a fraction. The tile appeared warmer than the rest of the floor as well. _A switch of some kind or a secret hiding spot? _

The gaps around the tile were too narrow to squeeze his fingers in between them so he straightened and retrieved one of the chisels from its hook on the wall and jammed it under the stone. Now he was able to pry the floor tile up enough to slide his fingers under it and lift it from its place. Fenris expected a dark opening in the floor to be revealed but instead dull red light shone in his eyes. Although it was not very bright he squinted against the strange glow. It was emanated by what appeared to be chunks of red crystals kept in jars similar to those lining the shelves in the workshop, and rune stones which likely had been crafted using the same material.

Brennan and Robert paused reading parts of Worthy's writing out loud to look at his find. After one look Robert quickly went to alert Aveline as well. Carefully Fenris lifted one of the four glass jars from the secret compartment and held it up for closer inspection. The blood red crystals spread a restless glow that shifted constantly, as if the air around them was thick like water and swirling with its own current. There was something mesmerizing about it, the play of light and shadows. The charge and warmth surrounding it could be felt even through the glass.

Footsteps resounded behind him, followed by an intake of breath.

"Red lyrium." Aveline sounded grim.

"Where did the fool dwarf get that?" Brennan asked. "And what was he doing with it?"

Fenris tore his gaze away from the jar in his hand and looked at hiding spot again. A noise buzzed in his ears, the slightest pressure on his eardrums, but it was so faint that he could not be certain that it was not simply the rushing of his own blood he was hearing. "It appears he was using it to create runes. Or trying to."

He reached out to pick up one of the rune stones to get a better look but Aveline bade him to stop. "Don't touch it. That stuff is dangerous at the best of times and we don't know what Worthy has done. We need to be careful."

"So this is the stuff the Champion found in the Deep Roads? What drove the Knight-Commander insane?" Fenris could not fault Robert for the unease that crept into his voice. "What are we going to do with it?"

"Get it out of here for one. Go to the barracks. We should still have containers for the safe transport of lyrium in storage from that last smuggling shipment we caught. We need to investigate a way to safely dispose of this rubbish, but more importantly we have to find out where the dwarf got the lyrium from and put a stop to it. We can't have this stuff end up on the market."

"Yes, Captain." A hesitant pause. "What about the Inquisition? What do we tell them?"

"If Lieutenant Mallory asks, you can let him know that we arrested Worthy and that I will write Varric to inform him. The Inquisition got involved because they wanted to find out who was behind the plagiarized book. As far as I'm concerned this is a separate case. We don't need to give them a reason to stick around for even longer."

As the guard left to follow his orders Fenris carefully placed the jar on the floor. Staring at the secret compartment, he scratched a couple of the white lyrium lines on his forearm. When the markings still worked they had reacted if magic was in the vicinity but now they still felt as dead and numb as they had since he had been recovering from lyrium poisoning. He sensed no reaction to the red lyrium right in front of him. The markings had been abuzz constantly during the fight against Meredith at the Gallows but the area had been so charged with magic that it was impossible to know if he had sensed the red lyrium or simply the effects of countless spells.

Either his memory was more faulty when it came to runes than he had thought before or the dwarf had been experimenting to create something new, because none of the rune stones that were visible appeared familiar. Leaning forward to get a better look, he noticed the glass jars and runes were not the only things stored in the compartment. Folded up between two jars sat a piece of parchment. _This better not be more of the dwarf's book._

His brows drew together while he attempted to make sense of the gibberish written on the page. As far as he could discern the letters and numbers held no meaning, were merely scattered in a random order.

Brennan leaned over his shoulder. "It looks like a cipher."

"I agree." Aveline took the note, looked at it for a moment, then folded it with sigh. "Now we'll have to dig through everything that dwarf has written in case it contains information about the red lyrium."

Brennan let out a laugh. "This should be fun."

* * *

Kirkwall's docks still reeked of rotting fish and seaweed, garbage, urine and other excrements from sailors who had drunk their earnings away in Lowtown's taverns. In some alleys and street corners the stench was so overwhelming it seemed intent on crawling down the nose and throat to upset the stomach of whoever was unfortunate enough to walk through it. This area Fenris had not missed in the slightest and would be perfectly content to forget about. But this was where Worthy's cryptic message had led them. The Guard had worked their way through the dwarf's entire manuscript as well as every other note that had been found in his home with bewildering enthusiasm. From what he had heard from Aveline and Donnic, guards had fought over who got to read Worthy's manuscript out loud and even came to the barracks during off-duty hours to hear more of the ridiculous story. For uncovering information about the red lyrium, however, this devotion had made little difference. Ultimately the cipher had only revealed a warehouse number.

"This should be it." Aveline pointed at the faded numbers five and three above a rusted door.

Brennan pushed down on the handle but unsurprisingly it did not budge. Two firm kicks solved that issue; the old, weakened hinges giving way under the force. Inside the stench of dead fish was even worse. Fenris drew up his upper lip in disgust. _Has every warehouse in Kirkwall been used to store those stinking fish at some point?_

The warehouse was like any of the other storage places he had set foot in over the years. Grimy, packed with barrels and crates from unknown destinations, and inhabited by lots of rats—if nothing worse. Dust and filth clung to the wooden floorboards and every other surface; it appeared the place had not been used for a considerable period of time. They searched the ground floor, then climbed the unstable stairs to the second level. There, at the very back of the building, they encountered another locked door, this time made of wood. Its surface showed countless splinters but nevertheless it looked like a more recent addition to the warehouse.

Five kicks were needed before the door finally succumbed and tore off its hinges and they had access to the last part of the building. Brennan cursed.

Four people—three men and one woman—sat against the wall at the back of the room, their wrists bound with rope, iron chains running from the ring around their necks to the wall. Two pairs of bloodshot eyes stared at Fenris and the two armored women as they approached; the other two remained closed, their heads hanging limply to the side. The chains seemed the only thing that kept them in a sitting position. A stench that was definitely not fish but not any less unpleasant surrounded the small group. Their captors had not cared to make the chains long enough to allow them to move away to relieve themselves.

Without realizing it Fenris' hand crept up to his own throat, as if to reassure him it was bare, absent metal collar. The moment his fingertips brushed skin he clenched his hand into a fist and forced it to drop to his side again. He felt the weight of Aveline's scrutinizing stare but did not look her way, waited for her to focus on the prisoners they had just found, as he knew she would.

"It's over," she reassured them. "Help is here. We're of the City Guard."

Brennan knelt down in front of the female prisoner and began to cut through the rope binding her thin wrists. All of them looked emaciated. Fenris glanced around but saw no sign of food or even water. Only an empty bowl at the feet of each prisoner.

Whimpering the woman rubbed her chafed wrists while Brennan moved on to undo the binds of the man who was still conscious. Fenris bent down to examine the other two but briefly touching the cold cheek of either man confirmed his suspicion: they had been dead for a while already.

"How did you get here?" Brennan handed both prisoners a health potion. "Do you know who did this to you?"

"One of those holes in the sky appeared near our village," the woman replied hoarsely after greedily downing the bitter draught. "Many were killed by demons. We managed to flee but on the road we were attacked by slavers." She closed her eyes, a soundless sob shuddering through her.

"They forced us to mine glowing red crystals on the island not far from here," the man rasped. "We were locked in here when we didn't have to work, sometimes for a few days in a row. But it's been... I don't know how many days, but we've run out of food a while back. Water too. It has never taken them so long to come back."

A dreamy smile softened the woman's pale face. "I wish they'd come back. It's hard work but the crystals sing such a beautiful song. I miss the song."

"The Gallows," Aveline said softly. "Shit. The bastards."

"Was one of your captors a dwarf?" Brennan inquired. "Blue eyes, dark brown hair and beard?"

The woman's eyelids fluttered open. What should have been white around her irises was completely red. "No... There was no dwarf."

"I only remember humans," the man added.

"The dwarf likely only purchased the red lyrium from the slavers," Fenris remarked. "No need for him to be involved in actually gathering the material."

It would never end. There would always be people willing to take advantage of others for their own gain. Preying on the weak, trading lives for the power of magic, for lyrium. Familiar, old hatred welled up inside him, burning sharp like acid. If only the world could forever be rid of those cursed monsters bearing the face of men. Once more his hands tightened into fists.

"We need a way to unlock their chains." Brennan straightened. "We'll be right back. We'll get you out of here."

She moved back to the entrance, motioning to Fenris and Aveline to come with her. Once they were out of earshot, she spoke. "They're not doing so well. Maybe a medic should take a look at them first before we try to move them."

"Hawke could—" He had already opened his mouth to suggest that Hawke could try to heal them before his mind seemed to catch up and remembered the myriad of reasons why that was not an option. Embarrassed by the slip he shifted his weight to his other foot and looked away, dodging Aveline's and Brennan's gaze.

"Go fetch a medic and someone who can get rid of those chains," Aveline finally told Brennan after a tense silence. "We'll stay here."

The guard gave a nod before hurrying away, leaving another silence in her wake.

"Are you alright, Fenris?"

His eyes shot from his feet to Aveline's face. "I am fine, Aveline."

She hesitated. "What year is it?"

"Still the same as the previous dozen times you've prodded me with that inane question."

In spite of his curt answer a smile curled the corners of her lips up. "I'm sorry. When we found these people I worried it would upset you and set you back."

"I am not upset."

"I'm glad to hear it." He could see her contemplate whether she would ask the next question she had on her mind. "You act very different when you're convinced you're a slave," she began, ignoring the way his mouth pulled as she did so. "It's hard to believe you're the same person now. I keep wondering how you managed to go from living like that to running from Danarius for years."

"By not forgetting who and where I am every hour," he bit. "I may have been a slave with Danarius, but my mind was sound. I have no memory of those... demented periods but based on what I've been told about them, there is not the least bit of similarity." He gave her a pointed look. "If you can picture Danarius condoning unpredictable and mindless outbursts of rage from his pet, be my guest."

"The rage I understand for what it is," she replied. "But what about the submissiveness?"

"Slavery is submission." When she opened her mouth to press for a more satisfying answer—whatever that might be—Fenris cut her off. "If my escape were the only part where my memory fails me there would be no need to remain with you. I could begin anew like I've done before. Being a slave does not equal lacking any sense of reason. These people," he pointed at the destroyed door, at the man and woman still chained to the wall, "have been reduced to slavery, yet they do not beg us for commands. Do not mistake my sickness for some grand insight into my time with Danarius."

He pushed the hair out of his eyes with an impatient gesture. "Perhaps we should focus on the matter at hand."

After a thoughtful pause Aveline nodded. "You're right. Those slavers can't get away with this. Not on my watch."


	14. Chapter 14

"It's been nearly a year!" Damian Hawke flung his arms out to emphasize his frustration as he paced through his room, eyed by a wary Varric. "And still no word from Fenris. Or Aveline for that matter. Not a single word! How hard could it be to write: "Hello, I'm fine" or: "I'm miserable"? Surely he's had the time for it at some point. Unless he's been stuck in his demented state for all this time because I left him in Kirkwall..."

"Elf is doing fine. I've been in touch with Aveline. He's just focusing on getting back on his own two feet."

"If he's doing so well then why doesn't he bloody write to me?" He spun around for yet another round between bed and desk. "I'll send him another message. Maybe then he–"

"Hawke." Varric's interruption had him come to a halt and turn to face the rogue. In that calm, persuasive tone of his the dwarf said: "Do you really think Aveline will give Elf all your letters?"

"Well, no, but maybe–"

"Do you think he will read them if he does get them?"

Damian stared at him. Then his shoulders slumped. "No... I suppose not."

"If he wanted to write you back he would have done it by now. Just give him the chance to figure things out. You know that both Elf and Aveline have pretty good reason to not be quick to get in touch. I get that you're concerned, but rest assured that he's doing well."

"Concerned," Damian snorted. "I vowed to take care of him and I've been miles away for nearly a year. My brother has been thinking he is going to die for nearly a year. I'm sick of waiting! I joined up with the bloody Inquisition to stop Corypheus, not sit around on a snowy mountain top."

"I'm sure we'll manage to put a few bolts in the bastard soon," Varric replied with uninspiring lack of conviction. "It'll be over before you know it."

He shot the dwarf a foul look. "How slow do you think I am? At this point that phrase will only hold true when Corypheus comes bursting into Skyhold to get permanently killed off right this instant. As that didn't happen this morning, yesterday, last week, in the past month or the eight months before that, I'm just going to say it won't happen at all and that you are full of shit. I tracked Erimond to Adamant, the place was crawling with Wardens and the Inquisitor is fine with simply leaving them to summon demons and become slaves of Corypheus under the guidance of the evil magister."

Such a tremendous surprise that the white-robed figure at the ritual tower had turned out to be a Tevinter magister. Obviously the modern magisters could not let Corypheus rise to godhood and establish world domination on his own, they had to offer a helping hand in hopes of sharing in the profits. How anyone in their right mind could decide to serve a power-hungry darkspawn with a superiority complex Damian did not understand, but magisters were high on the list of most likely suspects.

Despite the minimal head start, catching up to Erimond had proven a challenge, one he and Stroud had ultimately failed at. They had pursued the magister through the Western Approach but his clever use of fire glyphs, obscured by the reddish sand of the desert, had slowed them down and allowed him to reach the safety of Adamant fortress before they could get close enough to capture or kill him. Damian had enjoyed a scorched beard and pair of eyebrows for almost two weeks as a souvenir of one of the close escapes from Erimond's fiery traps. With Stroud he had spent a day near the fortress, which had appeared pretty crowded for something that was supposedly "abandoned". By estimate at least three hundred Wardens had gathered – possibly more. Maker only knew how many of those had been traded for demons by now.

Once they had managed to form a decent idea of the size of the Warden forces they had made the journey back to the main camp to inform the Inquisitor of the situation. Only to be told that she and her personal group of fighters had already left to return to Skyhold and Hawke and Stroud were expected to do the same. Damian still fumed at the tremendous waste of time the journey all the way back and the period of inactivity that had followed, had been.

"Come now, Hawke, you know that's not true," Varric countered. "The Inquisition has a lot to deal with. Corypheus didn't exactly put all his sovereigns in one coin purse. The assassination of the Orlesian Empress had to be stopped too."

"I don't care about the Empress! If a bunch of Orlesian nobles wants to stab each other in the back while eating desperate ham and other nonsense as part of their "Game", they can go right ahead. In the meantime the Wardens have had plenty of time to prepare. Their mages have had months to do Erimond's treacherous ritual, so all that's left are probably a pile of corpses and blood mages that aren't worth saving."

The dwarven storyteller looked at him as if he had truly lost all credibility. "The Wardens' big fortress _is _in Orlais, which makes the Orlesians a pretty good ally to have, despite how Orlesian they are."

Damian folded his arms in front of chest, not of a mind to be talked out of his anger so quickly. After months of idleness, of being stuck at Skyhold without means to find out how Carver and Fenris were doing – or, in the latter's case, means to get him to reply – his mounting frustration had built up to its peak. "That was still – what? – two, three months ago. And yet. We're. Still. Here. We had Erimond running. He may have had the chance to warn the Wardens but they would have had little time to prepare if the Inquisition had attacked as soon as possible. When we finally assault Adamant they'll be as ready as they could possibly be. How do you keep defending this rubbish?"

"I don't know a thing about waging wars and shit," Varric replied, spreading his hands. "Neither do you. It used to be simple when it was just our small group. We'd run into a couple of bad guys, shoot them, burn them, and go for a beer. The Wardens are an army. The Inquisition has people who know how to deal with this stuff. Apparently we need siege equipment we don't have up here to have a shot at getting into their fortress. And an army of our own. Ruffles has been busy trying to borrow both from the Orlesians. Besides, it's not like the Wardens have been free to roam as they saw fit. The way to Adamant has been blocked so nobody can get out or in. Their resources are shrinking. It really can't be much longer till everything is ready to kick some Warden ass. Or get our asses kicked, which does sound more likely, but I'm an optimist."

"Inspiring. Really."

Varric's "I know!" sounded forced and Damian ignored the exclamation. The number of times he had bested the dwarf at diamondback and seen through his bluff over the years could be counted on one pair of hands, but he caught on to the underlying uncertainty here. Wardens were formidable opponents. Wardens who had turned to blood magic, had summoned demons to come to their aid and were under the influence of Corypheus... That sounded like it could be worse than facing Meredith and Orsino had been. At this point Damian was past feeling overly worried by the prospect, however. Actually doing anything, even if it was taking part in a massive battle against some of the most formidable fighters in Thedas, would be preferable by now. Anything to get closer to finally put this mess to rest. To let Carver live in questionable security with what remained of the Wardens. To finally return to Fenris.

* * *

He grabbed the next rung of the ladder tightly and pulled himself up. Flames from a burning arrow which had been shot at the ladder licked on the rung above, close to his face. Damian released a little bit of ice magic when he reached up again, dropping the temperature to such an extent that the fire was smothered. Frost coated the blackened wood under his palms. It was an awfully long way up but he had almost reached the top now. There was no other way to go; below him more Inquisition soldiers had already begun their ascend.

The sounds of battle – screams of fury, courageous battle shouts, outcries of pain and surprise, the sharp clangs of metal striking metal, the much duller noise of a blade connecting with thick leather or underlying flesh, the vehement hiss of arrows flying past, crackling magic and roaring demons – thundered around him on a larger scale than he had ever experienced before. Down below the massive battering ram slammed against Adamant's sealed gate, making the walls – as well as the ladder he was on – shake.

The Inquisition's prolonged period of inactivity had finally come to an end, and in quite a spectacular manner. Nothing spelled the opposite of sitting around twiddling thumbs like a frontal assault on a fortress where every Warden – barring a few exceptions – of the south was holed up. The long journey to one of the most remote parts of the Western Approach should have provided plenty of time to prepare for what was to come, but as far as Damian was concerned you could never truly prepare for a battle like this.

A warning cry resounded nearby and he tilted his head back just in time to see a Warden lean over the battlements with a rock about twice the size of a dwarven skull.

The Warden did not dally with his heavy load, releasing it quickly and ducking out of range of potential archers waiting for the opportunity of a good shot. There was nothing the young Inquisition soldier, who was above Hawke on the ladder and had five more rungs to climb to the top, could do to stop or avoid the massive stone. Realizing he would suffer the weight of the soldier, the rock or a combination of both, Damian let go of the ladder with his left hand and raised it as the stone crashed on the soldier's head with a sickening sound. He barely had time to hope his magic would comply straight away, no chance to form a proper spell, instinctively pulling at his mana to create an uncoordinated blast of force. The force magic burst from his hand and hit soldier and rock, stalling, stopping, reversing the downward plummet.

The soldier was flung on the battlements, the rock pushed aside to drop back down a safe distance from the ladder. Damian grabbed the next rung and rushed to the top as fast as he could. His boot slipped on the icy wood and for one panicked moment he thought he would fall to his death anyway. But he managed to hold on and finally, _finally_, drag himself up on Adamant's walls.

Not that this accomplishment gave him the chance to catch his breath. The Warden who had dropped the stone had – in a perfect example of irony – been hit by his victim and was struggling to worm his way out from under the Inquisition soldier. Three shades were rapidly advancing with that awkward wading gait of theirs, as if they had to push through the air itself to propel themselves forward. Demons were dangerous, but Damian suspected that the Warden would pose an even greater threat when he was back on his feet. The soldier who had been hit by the stone did not appear to put up a fight or offer any form of resistance. Either he was unconscious or dead.

More shades and Wardens were doing their best to prevent Inquisition infantry from gaining a foothold on the battlements. Protecting the soldier who was likely already dead would take time and energy he could not spare. Damian's fingers found the smooth wood of the staff on his back and pulled it free. Fire flickered to life in the focusing crystal at the top. He focused his will on the spell, aimed, released.

The Warden let out a shriek when the concentrated ball of fire hit his head and set him ablaze. Damian blocked out the flailing of arms in desperate attempts to douse the flames and turned his attention to the shades. He evaded a razor-sharp black claw lashing at his throat, tried to regain his concentration but had to dodge a second blow. Backing away, mindful not to stray too close to the edge of the battlements, he wrestled with his mana to make it obey to his will. Spikes of ice eventually materialized in front of him, piercing the shades and freezing them in place.

The other Wardens present were beginning to see the threat he posed and acted accordingly. A woman with glowing red eyes sent a crackling bolt of lightning in his direction and Damian hurriedly erected a shield around himself. Rushed as it was, it absorbed the electricity but was destroyed by the impact. This, a battle with this many enemies, requiring fast reactions, offensive and defensive spells cast in quick succession, was much more challenging than fighting a bunch of undead could ever be. Soldiers continued to climb up the siege ladders but had to fight the waiting demons and Wardens for access to the fortress walls. Losing that fight meant a lethal fall. So few allies on the walls meant a lot of hostile attention for Hawke.

He fought, no moment of respite. Fought to protect the Inquisition forces, fought to stay alive. Damian was aware of his reserves dwindling rapidly, sucked down greedily by his spells. Soon, again far too soon, he felt that hollowness that signaled the depletion of his mana. And more Wardens and demons remained. The female mage made the ground beneath him light up in the familiar pattern of a glyph. Fire, ice, paralysis – it did not matter which she intended for him. With what felt like an enormous effort he dispelled it a heartbeat before it went off.

It would be easy, so easy, to use a little of his blood and be done with it. A cut, a few drops, and he could end her, end all of them here and get one step closer to defeating Corypheus.

The heavy, metallic smell of blood already hung heavy in the air; the stench of death penetrated his nostrils. No one else would even know. Surely it was small, meaningless in the grand scheme of things, in the face of all that was at stake. He could just forget about it as soon as it was done and move on. After everything he had already done, a few simple spells, a couple of fireballs cast with blood would hardly matter – no added weight to his conscience.

Damian pressed the sharp metal of the glove encasing his right hand against the skin of his arm. Blood and power underneath, within reach. He only needed a little...

His gaze shot back to the mage. He could burn her to a crisp in the blink of an eye. It would be easy.

Unexpectedly a memory, years old, part of a life he no longer had access to, surfaced. Just a flash of Fenris regarding him in a way he had not looked at Damian in quite some time, a look of respect, trust in his large, mossy green eyes, his pose as relaxed as it could get while still retaining some of that caution he never seemed able – or willing – to shake. _"You are strong, Hawke."_

Fenris had been wrong, of course. The fear of losing him, of watching him die had driven Damian to blood magic. Had pushed him to do monstrous things. He was no better than any of the maleficarum they had faced over the years.

He met the red light that had swallowed the Warden's eyes, his stomach clenching in revulsion. She might as well be an abomination with her will surrendered to Corypheus like that. That was what she had murdered one of her fellow Wardens for. Someone like Carver. To be reduced to a mindless slave. Two worthless sacrifices.

That was not what he wanted to be, was not how he could return to Fenris and look him in the eye. The repeated handing over of his knife when the elf was lucid had been a promise. A symbolic one, but a promise nonetheless: _I won't do it again. I won't hurt your trust in me again. _He would not lose what remained of his mind and soul just to protect himself. It would not be worth it if it meant having to go back to Fenris with the shame of weakness he bore on his shoulders even heavier.

The Warden moved her staff and free hand in a way which signaled she was preparing another spell.

Damian started running. Not away from her, as she might have anticipated, but towards her. He shot a handful of sparks her way to distract and hopefully trick her into getting defensive for a few precious moments.

To his own surprise it worked. She held off casting whatever she had had in mind for him to strengthen her spell shield. But she had nothing to fear from Hawke's spells. Barely slowing his steps Damian turned his staff so the blade was pointing up and aimed for the red light on the right.

Realizing her mistake, the Warden mage raised her own staff to block the oncoming attack. Too late, too slow, not enough. Hawke's weapon veered a little to the side but its momentum was great enough to pierce the eye and the brain behind it. Damian gave a jerk on the wood to twist the blade before pulling it back. The Warden went limp and collapsed, neither of her eyes glowing red anymore.

Slowly the Inquisition's numbers on the battlements increased, but the Wardens refused to give ground easily and called for the aid of more and more demons. The balance only truly shifted in favor of the Inquisition when the Inquisitor and three of her associates appeared and contributed to clearing out the demons. Damian managed to hide his relief – or at least hoped he managed – and followed the Inquisitor down to the heart of Adamant's fortress.

With the Inquisitor's group it did not take long to fight their way through to Erimond and Warden-Commander Clarel, who appeared on the verge of unknowingly enslaving herself to Corypheus as well. How could the Order represented by these people be the same as the one that had not only saved Ferelden but likely the entire world by ending the Blight which had destroyed his home? These people were blinded by fear, by the worst scenario branded in their minds, and willing to do the most horrible things to prevent that fear from coming true.

They weren't heroes. Just people. Stupid, weak people who couldn't see they were destroying more than they were attempting to save.

What possessed Erimond to make it seem like a good idea to summon what looked an awful lot like an Archdemon to intimidate Wardens who were desperate to kill the remaining Old Gods would likely forever remain a mystery, but that was the monumentally stupid move the magister made. The ensuing fight and chase blurred together in a haze of blood, fire and lightning. Damian was not sure whether they were pursuing Clarel and Erimond or the dragon, or that the latter was pursuing _them_. He did know that the Warden-Commander came very close to killing the damned Tevinter. That the dragon in return crushed nearly every bone in her body but that she still managed to move. That her final act was to send the monster into the abyss that awaited beyond the edge of the ruined bridge they all found themselves on with the chase at an end.

He learned that a falling dragon could destroy even more of an already damaged bridge. What it felt like when the stone gave way beneath your feet and there was nothing to support you, to prevent you from plummeting down, and your stomach got stuck in your throat while the rest of your body fell.

That the world ended with a flash of green light.


	15. Chapter 15

Fenris stepped off one of three small boats that had sailed to the Gallows on a late, rainy afternoon, landing on the grey stones with a small bounce. The weight of the greatsword secured on his back, trusted as it was, he had to grow accustomed to anew. His right hand went to the long hilt above his shoulder, needlessly confirming the two-handed blade's presence. It was a simple sword, no engravings and decoration on the cross-guard meant to protect the fingers, and a diamond-shaped pommel which was not adorned with a shiny gemstone; forged from everite, the blade appeared far darker than steel, silverite or veridium, gleaming almost black in the dull, somber light.

The smooth grey cobblestones were wet and slightly slippery beneath his feet, of which only the vulnerable arch was covered by a strap from the additional leg protection he was wearing over his trousers. The thick material, just as the woven leather of his trousers, was still stiff, not yet softened and worn by use. A long vest, also made of leather and lined with patterned wool on the inside, as well as a breastplate of the same metal as his sword protected his vitals. The dark brown and olive green shades of his attire were of limited use now but would allow him to blend into forested areas.

His arms were left bare – not the preferential option, both because of the cold of the southern climate and the vulnerability of exposed skin, but so far he had been unsuccessful in finding a replacement for his old armor that did not irritate the lyrium markings. A certain degree of discomfort, an unpleasant sensation bordering on pain, was normal and could not be avoided, but every kind of sleeve he had tried had made the numbness of the dead markings near unbearable. It did not hurt, simply grated on his nerves until it occupied all of his mind and he could only wish to be rid of the lifeless lines in his skin.

And so his arms remained uncovered. For some reason the contact with clothing was less bothersome when it came to the rest of his body. Which was fortunate, because Fenris was not inclined to march into battle naked.

He pushed his rain-slicked hair back, out of his eyes, trying to ignore the ominous feeling gnawing in his gut. The Gallows looked considerably different than he remembered, but for once he could be certain this was not due to any failing on his memory's part. It seemed a safe assumption that the jagged red crystals which had spread across the ground formed a fairly recent addition to the tiny island. Statues of despairing slaves concealing their face in their hands were no longer suspended from the walls to greet him. They had come to life during the fight against Meredith and now the bronze corpses still lay strewn across the courtyard, missing limbs or their head. A permanent depiction of the battle that had raged here, a reminder of the actual people who had fallen to blades, arrows or magic. Strangely, walking away from that battlefield was one of the last times he had been happy. Weary, saddened for Hawke for losing a companion in his mabari, uncertain about what the future might hold as he had become a fugitive once more – for defending mages of all things – but happy. Free, with a careful, alien kind of optimism that everything would be well despite the great unknown of where to go, what to do.

"Oh, this is so exciting!" Merrill hopped off the boat she had been on and peered at the red lyrium ahead. "And a bit creepy. It's just like our old adventures! If only Hawke were here. And Varric. And Isabela... I guess it's not really the same when they're not here and we're not following Hawke. Do you think that means we won't be attacked so often? I never understood why so many people were angry with Hawke all the time." Her wide green eyes flickered to Fenris. "I'll... stop babbling. I'm sorry."

"Good call, Merrill," Aveline remarked idly as she watched the rest of her guards disembark.

The hunt for the red lyrium-smuggling slavers had brought them here. For months they had proven illusive, had barely shown signs of an intent to continue their operation. The warehouse where the slaves were found had remained deserted and every attempt from the City Guard to interrogate Worthy had resulted in another rant about Varric's treachery and the ways in which the runecrafter ranked as the superior dwarf. But, like with all men who preyed on the weak and vulnerable for their own gain, their patience finally ran thin and they dispatched a new group of slaves to mine the dangerous mineral. This time the operation was intercepted quickly, the slaves freed. However, the slavers had managed to retreat to the island where they had previously forced others to work. Not willing to grand them the slightest chance to slip away again, Aveline had drummed up additional guards, as well as Merrill for support against any kind of magical activity they might run into, and set off to the island.

The potential usefulness of magic was hard to argue against when their destination was infested with dangerous crystals which were apparently capable of driving people insane but Fenris questioned the wisdom of bringing a witch who had been using blood magic for over a decade and who had taken doomed risks out of pure naivety. But unfortunately the number of more trustworthy mages in the vicinity was as low as zero. Which was not necessarily related to the recent war between mages and Templars which had had both factions roaming the country and attacking one another.

"Alright," Aveline began when the boats were empty, "we know those bastards must be hiding here somewhere. They're likely to have barricaded themselves in the old Circle building. At least one of them is a mage, so we'll have to be careful." She made eye contact with the guards one by one, lingering on Donnic before continuing to address the group as a whole. "The Gallows have been prohibited territory for the past four years and you can probably already see why. Red lyrium is extremely dangerous. It can twist the mind and drive you to acts of unreasonable aggression. As far as we know there is no safe way to remove or destroy it. Watch your step and do not touch anything unless it's absolutely necessary. Never touch any of the crystals. If you get the feeling they "sing" or call to you or if you sense your mood change dramatically without clear reason, report this to me, Lieutenant Hendyr or Sergeant Evighan and _turn back_. This will not be seen as cowardice, disobedience or desertion. There is still very little we know about red lyrium's effects and it's best not to take any risks. Understood?"

A resounding "Aye, Captain." was the answer from every guard.

Aveline nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, let's show them that this former prison was only a taste of what awaits them."

This was met with some agreeable cheering, quickly watering down to nervous murmuring as the group began to move forward through the gate and to the square. The already restless atmosphere immediately grew even more tense. Braving an area infected with red lyrium to hunt down slavers was reason for everyone to be on edge, a leap into the unknown. For Fenris it was more, the stakes higher: for him this was a test. The first time he was armed again, trusted with a blade. Today he had gone five full weeks and two days without suffering a single lapse in lucidity. It seemed both endlessly long to have spent waiting, hovering in uncertainty about whether he had fully recovered, whether he had managed to reclaim his sanity – if that was a thing you could ever truly claim to possess. He knew of no healer who could tell him if he was safe from the last effects of lyrium poisoning. Even Hawke had never been able to confidently predict to what extent his mind would heal. Yet everything seemed to indicate he was himself again, despite the continuous struggle between nagging uncertainty and determination.

He had been asked what he planned on doing when he passed this test, when he had it confirmed that his mind was resilient enough to make it through the excitement and chaos of battle, but he was not certain yet. The hope he had had for the future when last setting foot here had been shaken to its core, his life and world rearranged into something completely different. Illness and Hawke's betrayal had, much like slavery, removed the ability to choose from his hands for a long time. To finally reclaim it when it had seemed forever out of reach... Fenris did not know how to approach it, where to go from there.

His hand went to a weapon again, this time the knife sheathed on his chest, near the left shoulder. In addition to this he carried two larger daggers, one on each hip. Donnic had made a jest about overcompensation, but without the ability to "stick his hand into people", wielding a sword suddenly seemed no longer sufficient.

They passed the first clusters of red lyrium, still modest in size. Every few steps the crystals surrounding them reached higher: till the knee, then the hip, and finally shoulder level. It got noticeably warmer as they weaved around the obstacles, the heat they emitted clearly felt on his bare arms. The unease intensified, an odd hollowness he could not shake. _Must be the lyrium. Or the amount of death this place has seen._

"Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter!"

Several guards jumped at the voice absent source. Weapons appeared raised in hands, in search of a target. Fenris yanked his new sword free with a move practiced ad nauseum during training. His gauntlets – forged from the same metal as the blade and breastplate – scraped over the hilt. Yet the owner of the voice did not reveal herself. They were alone, surrounded by red-glowing crystals.

"Maker, your servant begs you for the strength to defeat this evil!"

"Captain," one of the guards began, "is this crap talking to all of us already?"

Aveline looked to Merrill; she had drawn her sword as well, while the witch had readied her staff. The witch shook her head. "I don't think that's the lyrium. It sounds like..."

"The late Knight-Commander," Fenris supplied.

They clambered over two of the largest statues, which blocked the path ahead, to reach the center of the square and the heart of the maze created by the red lyrium. There sat

the statue of Meredith, still trapped in the pose of torment the lyrium had forced her into. Seated on her knees, back arched and face raised toward the sky, the hole that had once been her mouth forever spread in a scream. Dull red light shone through cracks in the "statue's" surface. The guards at the front of the group eyed it with distrust, ready for an attack.

"It's not enough that they make innocents suffer, no! We must also have insulted added to injury!" Meredith's voice echoed around them, resonating from every angle. Her remains did not appear to serve as the source of her words. Rather, the air itself vibrated with them.

"Andraste's mercy," Donnic mumbled, "there's truth to the rumors. The Knight-Commander's spirit is haunting the Gallows."

"The Veil has become very thin here. It's as if the Beyond is seeping into the physical world, creating echoes of the past." Merrill stared at the twisted figure and suppressed a shiver. "Oh, this is wrong. This is far scarier than Sundermount, maybe even worse than the Bone Pit. Although that one was pretty bad as well."

"Spare the mages! Give them freedom? And they would use it to tear down everything we hold dear! No! No, it cannot be allowed! I _will_ stop it!"

"Unless anyone is interested in hearing all of her mad ravings repeated, perhaps we should move on," Fenris remarked. "There is nothing we can do here."

Aveline gave a nod. "You're right. Let's keep moving."

They started walking again – still carefully circumventing the dreaded lyrium –and gradually put more distance between themselves and Meredith again, while her voice continued to resound across the square. Noises of magical as well as ordinary clashes came out of nowhere, only to die away again moments later. Fenris wondered if the sounds of his blade were among them. He had heard of locations which were considered haunted or cursed after a great deal of bloodshed, had sensed it in the Bone Pit, but to walk in such a place and hear echoes of a battle he had taken in part in himself was a strange experience. As if the world itself aimed to refresh his memory.

"Do you hear me, Champion? I _will _defeat you!"

"Turning the idol into a fancy sword won't save you!"

Merrill looked over her shoulder. "Was that Hawke?"

"Maybe the Champion's spirit is still here to protect us from the Knight-Commander's insanity," the elven guard Lia suggested hopefully.

Fenris' heart rate involuntarily sped up at the so familiar echo. Doing his best not to think of everything that voice signified and was tied to, he helped clear the rubble barring their passage. "I doubt that."

Once... no, twice he had had a moment of weakness, the intent to write a message for Hawke, to inform him of the progress he had been making. But when he had sat down behind a desk with parchment and ink, no words would come. He would simply sit and stare at the blank page, and ultimately remember the collar around his neck and the chains, the scars on the mage's left arm and hand, Aveline telling him of the threat to take Donnic's life. And he would get back to his feet without writing a single sentence.

Hawke's last letters had remained unopened.

"I will not be defeated! Maker! Aid your humble servant!"

With the Knight-Commander's shrieks dogging them, they ascended the steps to the old Circle building. Red lyrium had made its way here as well, although to a lesser extent than in the main square.

"Look at it all. Why don't they just drown us as infants? Why wait? Why give us the illusion of hope?"

"This is beginning to grow tiresome." Would they have to continue to listen to everyone who happened to have uttered a word during the battle?

Skeletons and individual bones littered the stone tiles, some clad in armor, others partially covered by decaying robes. Swords, axes, shields, maces and staffs lay abandoned and forgotten where they had fallen from their owners' hands years before. He was used to witnessing death, and yet that unrest, that ominous sensation remained, only seemed to become more prominent the longer it lasted. Perhaps it was the lyrium's doing after all.

"At least we don't have to fight them all over again," Donnic made an attempt at levity as they crossed the smaller courtyard to the front doors.

"Meredith expects blood magic? Then I will give it to her. Maker help us all."

More remains awaited them inside; mages cut down, Templars burnt, electrocuted or crushed. Discolored blood stains coated the surfaces of walls, floors and doors. Other than the dead, there was no sign of anybody's presence.

"Be on your guard," Aveline warned as they slowly moved through the deserted hallways.

Bones crunched when heavy guard boots descended on them.

Fenris only heard the rage demon's roar when a hot claw grabbed him by the arm. His skin practically sizzled under the burning contact, blisters already forming the moment he pulled free. Gripping the sword with both hands, he spun around and cleaved straight through the creature of solid fire. Brennan and Donnic rushed over to help but he was not truly in need of their aid. With a downward blow the demon was crushed and sank back into the ground.

"I think someone summoned it," Merrill told them. "I can sense the magic."

It still took them four demon ambushes, evading multiple traps and delving into the farthest corners of the building to reach the slavers: one mage, as the witch had guessed, and four others. Aveline's command to surrender was predictably not heeded. The slavers intended to fight dearly for their lives and freedom despite being outnumbered; one guard was killed, two others seriously injured, but one by one the slavers fell to the blades of the Guard, the witch's magic and Fenris' sword.

"Look around for potentially useful items before we get out of here. Maybe there is still something that can help us against magic in the future." Aveline removed her rather scorched Guard-Captain scarf from her neck and tossed it away. "We won't be coming back here anytime soon."

He had made it through. Fought alongside the guards and came out victorious, with the rage demon's burns as his only injuries. With the slavers dead, he might have expected the uncomfortable sensation to ease. Joy, relief, they were there, tentative and careful, but they were drowned out by the nagging emptiness.

Rolling his shoulders to ease the tension that had built up there, Fenris lowered his blade to the ground. The spine running along the middle and which had previously served as a gutter for the rain was now guiding blood down to the tip. It truly was a good sword. Coin well spent. Hawke's coin. That was a bothersome detail he preferred not to focus on, but earning coin as a mercenary was rather difficult without weapons and armor and with defective markings. So part of the hefty purse Hawke had left with Aveline had been put to use for new equipment.

Once the most valuable and powerful objects – Dweomer runes which provided protection against spells and suppressed magical activity, magebane poison, several amulets and rings – had been collected from the storage rooms and a makeshift stretcher had been put together to carry the body of the fallen guardsman, they left the building. Everyone seemed eager to get away from the Gallows; the pace with which they descended the stairs to the small courtyard was considerably quicker than on the way here.

"I refuse to keep running! I won't wait for her to kill me."

The First-Enchanter's words resonated across the area once more. Fenris ignored it, as they all did, and kept up the brisk pace. His sword was held ready in case demons or other hostile entities still lurked somewhere.

"Promise me you won't die. I can't bear the thought of living without you."

He came to such an abrupt halt that the witch bumped against his back.

"I didn't quite catch that. Could you speak up?"

"Then let me make it clearer for you."

"Fenris? Are you-"

"I'm fine," he snapped, quickly marching after the guards who had been starting to get ahead of them.

That there was some haunting ghost version of himself forever professing his love to Hawke was a disturbing notion. And highly ironic, given everything that had happened. Was this another example of the Maker's sense of humor people tended to lament?

The unease had worked its way up to his throat, making swallowing difficult. It truly must be an effect of the red lyrium.

They made it across the main square safely, enduring the assault of Meredith's screams on their ears one last time. On board of the small sailboat Fenris pointedly looked in the other direction while the witch attempted to make eye contact. He was in no mood to talk, let alone be subjected to her nosiness.

Returning to Kirkwall's stinking docks counted as a relief but the guards' spirits were muted under the loss of their comrade. The group was shrouded in silence as they disembarked.

They were away from the lyrium and the ghosts of the past and still Fenris felt that hollow ache inside of him. It was a sense of dread and loss he could not place.

Donnic clasped him on the shoulder, his face warmed by a smile. "Well fought, my friend. I knew you'd be back to old form before we knew it."

Fenris gave the human a nod in thanks, gaze drifting to the small island they had just left behind. He had made his decision.


	16. Chapter 16

_One foot in front of the other he stumbled through the dead landscape. Rock masses, rising and plummeting, twisting and intertwining, guided his path. Up and down were irrelevant; no matter the angle of ascend or descend, he did not have to exert himself any more than on flat ground. The world tilted to meet his steps. Which seemed overly kind for a place of death. He passed graves, tombstone after tombstone. He tried not to look at them, tried to ignore their silent, accusatory presence, but he could not prevent his eyes from occasionally wandering and catching the words engraved in cold stone. "Bethany", "Malcolm", "Leandra". The names jumped out at him. "Gamlen", "Mother", "Father", "Carver"._

_He had to stop reading them but every time he caught sight of a grave it spelled out the name of someone he knew. Bones or lifeless bodies lay between the headstones. Almost he stepped on the already cracked skull of a skeleton with the frayed remains of a red scarf around the neck. Sometimes he thought he saw Fenris out of the corner of his eye, arms folded in front of his chest, handsome face twisted in the angriest of scowls. But as soon as he fully turned that way the elf was gone and all he saw were more tombstones. "Bethany", "Leandra", "Aveline", "Varric". _

_He shut his eyes, not wanting to see the next one, knowing what it would be. He had to get out of here but there was no way out. High above his head green clouds billowed, swirled around a gaping center. Green, green, green. Everything in this blasted place had that sickly green hue. From the green fog flowing around his feet to the green fire burning in stone pillars which showed up along the path at irregular intervals. Even his own hands looked green in the light when he looked at them. _

_"Family", "Carver", "Malcolm". _Don't read them, don't look at them. Stop it. Stop it.

_"Fenris". _

_"No," he whispered the word. He knew it was not true, and yet his throat grew tight. Fenris was alive. This was not real. It was the Fade, a realm of nightmares. _

_The path took a turn to the right. Rounding the berth suddenly brought him eye to eye with his mother. Dressed in a wedding gown she had never worn at her actual wedding, she took a shuffling step toward him, attempted another but dropped down as her legs gave out from under her. He caught her without thinking, sank to his knees to lower her stitched together body to the ground. Grey eyes – wrong color, not the color of Mother's real eyes but the one Quentin wanted her to have – raised to his face, reflecting that disgusting green light. She opened her mouth to tell him it was alright, that she had known he would come, was proud of him despite how horribly he had failed, failed her, failed the memory of her and Father, failed Fenris and himself. But it was not her voice he heard. Mother's lips moved but a low, dark voice sounded around him, not matching the words her mouth formed._

_"Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered?"_

_He released Mother, the body that was not hers, in the dress she had never worn, and scrambled to his feet. He pressed on, almost running, splashing through puddles. Go, he had to get out of here._

_Bethany's limp body was thrown at his feet. She skidded to a halt with her neck in an awkward angle, blood already beginning to pool around her head. He averted his face and kept going._

Don't look at the graves, don't look at the specters of the past._ He had barely thought the words when he bumped into something. Someone. _

_"Hawke." Fenris blocked the way ahead. His face was gaunt, as it had been at the very low of his illness, with sunken cheeks and sharply protruding cheekbones. Purplish shadows underlined his round, bloodshot eyes. "Get them out of me."_

_Pleadingly the elf lifted his hands, clutching a knife in the right. Blood coated the blade and his fingers, flowing from where he had attempted to carve the markings from his skin. _

_Damian's stomach turned. Tongue tied in horror, he was unable to produce a sound, only backed away. _

_At the lack of response Fenris turned his attention back to the knife and dragged it along another flickering line on his arm._

_"Don't!" He lunged forward to grab the elf's hand, force it away, but Fenris resisted. _

_"They're killing me! I want them out!" He wrestled free from Hawke's grasp. He pressed down harder on the knife, then pulled with slippery fingers at a strip of skin which had come loose. _

_Again Damian tried to stop him but he was not fast enough, could not prevent Fenris from tearing a piece of his own skin off to bare the bloodied flesh underneath. When the knife was pried from his fingers he dug his nails into the wound, opening it even further. This time Damian managed to get a hold of the elf's hands. He held them firmly and tried to make eye contact, hoping to calm Fenris. The moment their gaze met, the struggling stopped, but not out of a sense of cooperation or understanding. Instead Fenris' eyes rolled up and he collapsed._

_For the second time Damian ended up on his knees, now with Fenris in his arms. He jerked when that low voice, dripping with maliciousness and cruel amusement, spoke again. "Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about."_

No! _He searched within himself for his magic, the will and concentration to heal Fenris' pain. The markings pulsed blue and red – blood continued to drip from the elf's arm. His pained panting had stopped._

_No magic would come. _

_"Fenris!" He shook the white-haired man, squeezed one hand so hard it must hurt, would have hurt. It was not true, was not real. Fenris could not die. But illusion or no, deception or reality, panic gripped him at the feeling of Fenris not breathing, at the sight of the bloodied markings. "You're not dead, Fenris. Don't be dead. You can't be dead. Don't you dare be dead."_

_The only reply was the Nightmare's laughter._

With the demon's laughter still ringing in his ears Damian Hawke smacked face-first on the ground. Cold sand enthusiastically slipped into every hole and crack, having him spluttering, coughing and snorting while blinking feverishly for over a full minute to clear his mouth, nose and eyes. Still disoriented he pushed himself up in a sitting position and quickly looked around. The sand he had landed on made up much of the surrounding landscape. Silver in the moonlit night, it formed small lumps and larger hills, gently sloping or steep, smooth or interrupted by rock formations. No sickly green light, no gravity-defying dunes above his head. Just countless of stars and the moon in a black sky. His breath fogged in front of his mouth.

The Western Approach. Real, not the Fade.

His eyes flew across the dark landscape as if he expected to find more tombstones, more graves.

Nothing. No dying family members, no bones, no corpses, no Fenris.

_"Fenris is going to die."_

Damian took a shuddering breath. He had to go. Had to reach Fenris, see him, make sure he was well, safe and sound. Screw the Wardens, the Inquisition, Corypheus. Damn them all to the Void. Fenris could not die.

His horse was standing a few feet in front of him, fruitlessly searching the dry ground for a bit of green to eat. He must have slid out of the saddle after falling asleep. He was lucky to not have broken his neck in the process.

Stiff from hours on horseback and the cold dessert night Damian managed to get to his feet. Sand ground between his teeth as he hurried toward the stallion. It belonged to the Inquisition and he barely knew how he had gotten it. As soon as he had made it out of the Fade and Adamant Fortress, he had rushed straight to the first mount in sight. Vaguely he recalled a lie about going to Weisshaupt but most of his memory of the time at Adamant was clouded, the plummet into the Nightmare demon's domain a haze from which only the emotions of despair and terror it had inspired stuck out. What he had done or said had slipped from memory into irrelevance. All there was room for in his mind were the Nightmare's words.

_"Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered?"_

The horse let out what sounded like a disagreeable snort when he grabbed hold of the saddle and placed one foot in the stirrup. With a groan he hoisted himself up, but the horse refused to move a single hoof once he had made it into the saddle. It snorted again and shook its head as if to say "no way", and no matter how hard Damian pulled at the reins or how many encouraging nudges he gave with his heels, that was all the activity he got out of his mount.

_"Fenris is going to die."_

"Come on, move! Go, go!"

"J_ust like your family, and everyone you ever cared about."_

"No! Get moving, you stupid overgrown cow!"

He screamed, cursed and pleaded but the exhausted horse stayed where it was, unwilling to keep moving for an inexperienced rider. Eventually he gave up and dismounted. Kirkwall was hundreds of miles away and without cooperation of his horse the journey would take him close to two months at the least. Too long. He had to get to Fenris as soon as possible and for that he needed the horse. Which meant rest.

On quivering legs Damian inspected the contents of the pack bound to the saddle, something he was not certain he had done before departing. Fortunately it contained provisions that should last him a fair amount of time. No tent though. He would have to spend the night outside.

_"Fenris is going to die."_

That sentence, that one damned sentence had torn open the barely mended injuries left by the deaths of his family and Fenris' spiral towards the same fate due to the unstable markings. Nothing but seeing Fenris, looking him in the eye and knowing with absolute certainty that he was alive and well, would relieve the fear and ache gnawing away at him.

* * *

The following weeks blended together in one long, mad dash to Kirkwall. During the days he exhausted both himself and his horse, in constant battle with the deepest fear given voice by the Nightmare. At night Damian dreamed of his experience in the Fade or arriving too late, of Fenris joining the dead. Despite the demon supposedly having been banished to a far-away part of the Fade, the memories remained to torment. The Nightmare did not need another encounter to haunt him.

_"Fenris is going to die."_

No, no, no, he wasn't. Whatever happened, he would not let him die.

In Val Royeaux he dispatched a message to the Inquisition claiming he was on his way to Weisshaupt. Let them think he had left the battle against Corypheus to inform the Grey Wardens of what had happened in the south. Like he gave a damn about those blood mages eager to sacrifice both their soul and the life of their comrades in the name of... What had it all even been for? Surely it was not honorable to wade towards victory through the blood of your allies. For the greater good it was probably called. For the greater good they had forced Father to use blood magic, threatening to kill Mother while she was pregnant. In the name of noble sacrifice they would have slit his brother's throat as fuel to summon and bind a demon. They claimed to serve the greater good of an unknown generation of people in a distant future when they had failed when it mattered most, when hordes of hurlocks, genlocks and ogres advanced from the south and overran Lothering, killed Bethany and so many others.

Gambling with lives, and in the end it had just been for a lie anyway, a ruse. To inform the remaining Wardens that their colleagues had been ruthless idiots and played for fools he would not travel the thousands of miles to Weisshaupt. Not when Fenris' life could be in danger. Once he was back with Fenris he could write them a letter carefully laying out the moronity of their recent actions.

Hawke managed to complete most of the journey on horseback, but the steep cliffs that made up the coast between Cumberland and Kirkwall were difficult to traverse on foot and near impossible on horseback. So from Cumberland he arranged passage on a ship again, like he had done over a year ago when travelling with Fenris and Willem, the Inquisition messenger. Unlike that time there was no storm to delay them. The sea remained calm, while Damian's mind was swept up by worry after worry, visions of Fenris having befallen some terrible fate. Relief took up the battle against those dark fears when the ship slowly sailed into Kirkwall's harbor and he at last got to set foot on the stinking docks again. The foul smell did not even register with Damian, however. Nor did the bustle of loading and unloading, the whistling, cursing and groaning from dock workers, the arguments between merchants and the harbormaster, the passengers and sailors trying to find their way to a comfortable establishment to have a drink and rest their feet. They formed obstacles to brush past at most, delays on the path to the man he longed to see most of all.

_"Did you think you mattered, Hawke?"_

His legs felt weak and he was out of breath from racing up the stairs by the time he arrived at Aveline's and Donnic's house. With one hand pressed to his side against the stinging sensation, he banged on the front door. "Fenris! It's me, Fenris, open up! Aveline? Donnic? Let me in!"

_"Did you think anything you ever did mattered?"_

He banged on the door again. And again. It stayed shut. No distant sound of approaching footsteps. No sign of life stirring behind any of the windows. He pushed himself away to stare up at the building, not knowing himself what he hoped to see. An alternative way in? A window left ajar to climb through?

He shook his head. No sense in breaking in if nobody was home. He struggled with the fresh surge of panic. Was this why he had never received word from Fenris? Instead of trying to recover, like Varric had claimed, had he been fighting for his life? Was it too late?

No, maybe they were simply elsewhere. Fenris did not have to be locked up inside at all times. Maybe he was lucid right now. It was still day, late in the afternoon. He started running again. There was only one place where Aveline and Donnic could be.

_"You couldn't even save your city."_

The guards stationed by the entrance to Viscount's Keep watched him storm past with bemusement, not getting the chance to greet him. Damian did not even glance in their direction. His boots pounded on the red carpet laid out to guide guests to the office of the Viscount, the Captain of the Guard or the throne room, faded from the many feet that had treaded here before. He did not take notice of the noble complaining about how much longer he would have to wait, or of the woman bidding him a good day, probably as a mockery. Instead he headed up the stairs, then ascended a couple more steps on the right, crossed the short distance to the doorway giving access to the guard's barracks, plunged down the final set of stairs and finally turned left to burst into Aveline's office.

"Where is Fenris?"

Aveline jumped to her feet at the sound of the door slamming against the wall. "Hawke! You're back."

He chose not to respond to that redundant stating of the obvious. One look around the office sufficed to know that Aveline was the only one here. "Where is Fenris?"

_"How could you expect to strike down a god?"_

"What are you doing here?" she asked in return, refusing to answer his question. "I haven't heard anything about Corypheus' defeat yet."

Damian marched over to her desk. "I'm not asking again."

Her face hardened, mouth drawing into a thin line, in a way he failed to fully grasp its meaning of. Yet. "He's not here."

"I can see that," he replied impatiently. "Just tell me where he is. I need to see him."

"He's not here. He's left the city."

For a moment he thought he had stopped breathing, that his lungs had ceased to draw in air, that his heart and mind had stopped functioning and come to a screeching halt. He had heard Aveline's words, understood their individual meaning, but the message they represented, what they were referring to, simply could not be. It was impossible. It shouldn't...

_"Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about."_

He could not breathe. Fenris should be here. If he was still alive he had to be here.

Slowly Damian moved a hand to his face, brushing over a sweaty temple. His heart must have kept beating after all because blood was pounding in his ears. "You... you let him go?"

_"Fenris is going to die."_

"Hawke..."

"How could you let him GO?!" At the last word he grabbed the edge of the desk and flung it across the room– with a little help from a burst of force magic. The heavy piece of furniture barely missed Aveline and crashed into the wall next to her. Papers – likely a report she had been working on – flew through the air and rained back down between them. "The one thing I trusted you with!"

"Hawke, there is no need for– "

"You're willing to let him suffer to get back at me! This was for _his_ sake!"

"He was well when he left. It was no longer necessary!"

He was about to retort with the first obscenity that came to mind when the door to the office was flung open a second time. The contingent of guards storming into the room barely registered before he was knocked out.


	17. Chapter 17

He was free.

The rainy, changeable weather of late had finally become less restless and the weak, late winter sun of the south managed to slightly warm Fenris' face while he followed the uneven coastal route to Ostwick. Alternating between relatively flat, sandy terrain and cliffs stretching out from the Vimmark Mountains, it did not make for the easiest route to travel. He could have made the journey by ship but Fenris did not mind the slow progress. Being on his own again was a welcome change at this point. He needed it to think, clear his head. Get used to having only himself to rely on again. The desolate cliffs were about the best possible environment imaginable for that. Kirkwall had been a strange exception to have braced the inhospitable landscape and grown into a city on little more than bare rock. Tiny villages of little more than a handful of houses were the most one could expect to find here. The constant sense of isolation served as a good reminder for his regained independence.

For the first time in what felt like ages he was truly, unarguably free. He was on his own again and had nothing but that amazing, frightening concept as company, owned nothing but the clothes and sword on his back. No place to call home, no family, no Master seeking to return him to chains, no adversary of any kind. Not even a lover.

But he had his freedom and he would never let anyone take it from him again.

It was a strange thing to have to get used to. Sometimes he caught himself scanning the tree line and rocks on his left, convinced someone was lying in wait for him. So easy to forget there was no one hunting him, to forget there was no reason to fear. Because of his still not entirely flawless memory, or simply because something so ingrained needed time to fade. Or perhaps it was because what he was doing did feel an awful lot like running.

He had bid Aveline and Donnic farewell and – after having been extricated a promise to return and visit sometime – begun his journey east, which just happened to be the very opposite direction in which Hawke was to be found. Part of Fenris knew business with Hawke was unresolved and that, if he knew the mage at all, he would not leave things like this. And yet Fenris hoped, probably – definitively – foolishly, they would not meet again. He wished to leave his dealings with Hawke behind, along with the rest of a past better off buried. So far it had rarely stayed there but it would not hurt to try. Again.

He was not fleeing from Hawke. Not truly. It was simply... He squinted against the sunlight. What good would a final meeting do? Seeing the man again would only dredge up the mess of loss and betrayal. A situation he was uncertain how to handle or resolve and would rather not spend time dwelling on when it was not needed. Far better to leave it be, cauterize the wound and be on his way. Better, easier, and quite possibly safer as well, considering what the mage had become.

Hawke had taken care of him for a while – alright, longer than a while – before going off to defend his brother, and in doing so likely convince the world once more that he was a hero. As if a maleficar could ever be an example of bravery, sacrifice, principles and whatever else qualified as requirements for one to be considered heroic. Once the choice to be damned had been made, that was what mattered. The rest was... pretense, perhaps the final attempts to hold on to something better.

_Enough of this._ If all he was going to do was ponder the numerous issues revolving Hawke, he might as well turn around and head to the Inquisition's base. But Fenris was going to start fresh, with what little he had. No Hawke, no lover, no employment or home, just freedom and a somewhat tangible goal that was not running from the Champion of Kirkwall – he had not picked Ostwick as his destination simply because it would bring him farther from Hawke. The slaver operation in the Gallows had likely not come into existence on its own. The enslaved woman they had found in the warehouse had mentioned fleeing her home from a rift in the Veil and slavers descending on the villagers while they were on the road. There had to be more groups operating in the area, seizing the opportunity to profit from the chaos in the south. As a port city, chances were that Ostwick was used as a point to transport slaves from to the Imperium or other locations where exploiting them would pay off. Ships were considerably faster and easier than travel by road. And who would care enough to put a stop to it? With demons pouring from the sky, civil wars and the position of the Chantry uncertain, what authorities would concern themselves with the capture of a few commoners?

None whatsoever, of course. But Fenris would.

* * *

He did not encounter a soul during his journey. Although there was no true need for it, he ended up ignoring, if not avoiding, the few villages he passed. They were so small that he doubted the inhabitants would possess any useful knowledge and he carried enough provisions on him to make it to his destination when combined with the rabbits he managed to catch along the way. And the fewer people who knew you and suspected where you were going, the better. Even without immediate enemies, rules of survival should not be neglected. Carelessness and trust had been his undoing before.

The illusion of peace and safety was disrupted only once. Early one afternoon Fenris noticed unnatural green light flicker higher up on the rocks, the air crackling with magical energy while everything else was smothered in eerie quiet. Birds' songs had silenced and the winged creatures seemed to give the area a wide berth. Even the normally audacious seagulls were not anywhere in the vicinity. If it had not been too early in the season for most insects, Fenris would have wagered that they, too, would have been absent.

It was not difficult to guess what could be the cause of this strange phenomenon. Nevertheless he followed the path which brought him closer to the green light to investigate. He went no further once he caught sight of the creatures he had encountered far more often than he would have liked, prowling the cliffs. Demons made of liquid fire or a combination of deformed flesh and black, billowing smoke sluggishly waded around the scorched area. What little could grow amidst the sand and stone had been burned to sad, blackened roots and branches. Farther off he could make out a hut's thatched roof which appeared to have undergone the same treatment.

Remembering what Aveline had told him about the Inquisitor being the only person with the power to seal the tears in the Veil, he turned back and continued his way without attacking. Killing those favored mage pets was enjoyable but rushing into a battle which would never end because more could drop from the sky at any moment would be foolish, even if fights against corrupt mages had often felt the same way.

Ostwick seemed larger than during his previous visit. Outside of its walls entire new districts had arisen, spreading out until the mountains made it impossible to build further. Unsurprisingly, the denizens of these recent, makeshift districts were the poor. Demon-spawning rifts and the Mage-Templar war had caused yet another flux of refugees to seek shelter in a densely populated place. Fenris caught voices with Fereldan accents as well as people who sounded like they originally came from Kirkwall and even Orlais while he walked through the outer city rings.

Looks filled with suspicion found him with increasing frequency as he neared the central and richer part of Ostwick. Because he managed to pick the pockets of three people along the way this was not entirely undeserved, but it was clear people were more concerned about the greatsword he carried and the strange tattoos he was covered in. Some muttered about mages, others groused about elves not being permitted to bear arms. Remarks he could have expected. What he had not counted on, however, were mentions of a champion, Kirkwall and even his name. The result of the large number of refugees from Kirkwall? Or had the tales of Hawke and his associates spread across the Marcher coast thanks to Varric's book? Scowling, Fenris scratched a curled line on his right arm. Apparently he would have to travel considerably more miles to disappear into anonymity once more. Cutting ties with Hawke lost its effectiveness when everyone he encountered still connected him to the mage.

No matter. He would move on as soon as he had a lead on slaver activity.

He had not realized he had been to Ostwick before until he entered the city. Even then it took a moment to remember why he recognized the central market square: to find his sister he had sought out three contacts recommended by Varric, one of them a dwarf residing in the city of Ostwick. The man had ended up refusing aid, not interested in venturing into the Tevinter Imperium on behalf of a "freak elf".

For a while Fenris stood in front of the tavern by the square and watched people pass by, enter or leave through the front door painted in a bright dark blue. He might be able to get information there but something inside of him objected to randomly approaching strangers for inquiries. Forwardness of that kind had been more Hawke's style. He would prefer to directly go to someone who was well-informed. Someone like Varric. Or one of the dwarf's contacts. Granted, last time the contact had slammed a door in his face, but his current request was a lot smaller and quicker to fulfill.

He could not recall an address, nor the contact's name, only that the house he had visited had been in an alley near the tavern at the market. It took some time of wandering the adjacent streets and alleyways before Fenris finally stumbled on one that appeared familiar. A prostitute leaned out of the window of a brothel to tempt him with a generous look at her breasts as he passed but he tried not to pay attention to her. His destination was marked by a green door, of which the coat of paint was beginning to peel.

He had to knock twice before the door was pulled back. The dwarf who looked up at him with a round bearded face and who had an equally round belly, sparked recognition.

"Hello Dagmar."

The same had to be true the other way around, because Dagmar's bushy brows lowered to such an extent that his dark brown eyes barely remained visible. "Whaddayawant now, you freak elf? Looking for your mommy this time around? Try the brothel next-door. I'm sure you'll find her there."

Foreseeing the predictable action of the door being slammed in his face, Fenris grabbed hold of it before the dwarf could close it and pushed back. "I merely require some information. Then I will be on my way."

"I don't do business with Tevinter or knife-ears and definitely not with Tevinter knife-ears. Get lost!"

"This has nothing to do with Tevinter. A moment of your time is all I ask. A moment which only gets considerably longer when you persist in refusing to let me in."

Dagmar glared at him, an angry blush on his fleshy cheeks, but then he released the door and stepped back. "Sodding Varric. I could do without his recommendations. Fine. Make it quick."

Fenris stepped across the threshold and walked to the living area. It looked more cozy than he had expected. After settling down in a comfortable chair, an act which did not feel nearly as casual as he attempted to make it look, he turned to his host. "I'd like to know more about local slaver operations."

"Slavers?! Huh." Dagmar narrowed his eyes as he appeared to consider what this could mean. "How much is the information worth to you?"

"I do not have any coin." Aside from the three purses he had stolen today. He had used some of Hawke's coin to purchase provisions for the journey and left the rest in Kirkwall. Aveline had refused the offer to keep it as payment for her and Donnic's help, so it had ended up as a "donation" to the city.

"Then why would I tell you as much as where to get an ale? Info ain't free."

"Do you want me to come up with a threat?" He rubbed the dead markings, realized what he was doing and stopped. "They've been active in Kirkwall; I know they have to be working near Ostwick as well. While sharing this information may not be profitable for you, you won't lose out on anything by withholding it either. Unless you are involved in their dealings yourself."

Dagmar puffed up his cheeks in indignation. "I'm no slaver's pal, sodding elf! What do you want with them anyway?"

"To kill them."

These words were met with unimpressed silence. Eventually Dagmar released his breath with the sound of an annoyed tea kettle. "Bah, fine. Might as well. Place will be better off without 'em. There's a bunch of deceptive humans at the docks promising passage to saver regions for payment. Word is their "passengers" end up in chains instead. The crafty bastards also got a route through the mountains. Apparently it takes them to what was first a large refugee camp in the Marches. Now it's a camp of slaves. Easy for them to add new ones and then get them to the coast."

"The location of this camp?" Scouring the mountains for an obscure passage could take weeks without result, if he ever managed to find it at all.

"I'm not all-knowing. Try the imposters on the docks. They must have maps of the area or at least know where the camp is."

Fenris gave a nod. It was a start. He got to his feet. "You have my thanks."

"You can shove your thanks up your pipe, elf," the dwarf grumbled. "Now leave me be."

Opting not to burden his reluctant host any further, Fenris walked out of the door on his own, back into the alley.

The hunt had begun. And this time he was not the prey.


	18. Chapter 18

Damian Hawke returned to his senses with a nasty headache, a very dry mouth and no clue where he was. Sluggishly he raised his head to look around, wincing when the sizeable bump on the back touched the stone wall behind him. He appeared to be sitting in a niche of sorts, with a wall on his left, against his back and about eight feet in front of him. The room was dark; the nearest flickering source of light – likely a torch – was positioned around the corner, leaving him in shadows. Another torch hung farther away, on the other side of the room. Damian squinted at the distant flame. He could not see it clearly. Vertical black stripes obscured his vision.

Tilting his head did not change their orientation, nor their position. Oddly constant if they were the product of his aching brain...

Bars. The lines were real, solid. Solid bloody metal thicker than his thumb. He could now make out a few horizontal bars as well, one at waist height and a shorter one which would reach above his head if he were standing. A door. This was not a niche but a cell.

His hand felt heavy when he lifted it to touch the bump on his head. Too heavy. And it certainly was not supposed to make the sound of iron rattling against iron. He looked to the right, then left. Both his wrists were shackled, a chain running between them and the wall he was leaning against.

"What the..."

He had not only been locked up, but chained as well.

Again he looked around, more alert now. The cell was almost completely empty, barring a thin straw mattress he was sitting on, a wooden bucket which was likely meant to be used as a privy in the corner, and a pitcher and plate with a lump of bread on it. There were no windows as far as he could see.

The chains dragged across the stone floor when he moved over to the pitcher. The burning sensation in his throat begged to be cooled.

In hindsight the scent should have tipped him off about the jug's contents but Damian's thirst was so great that he had already filled a greedy mouthful before his mistake registered. As it was, the bitter, metallic taste burning on his tongue and palate took him by surprise. Half-choking he managed to avoid swallowing most of it and spit it out, spraying the repulsive stuff everywhere.

"Fuck!"

It tasted like lyrium, but different, wrong. A lyrium potion gone bad, if that were possible. He had never heard of such a thing. Wheezing Damian wiped his mouth. The liquid continued to tingle on his tongue and spread from there, traveled down his throat and farther to that spark deep inside of him, the core of his magic, to quell it. Despite it only being a few drops, he felt the stuff eat away at his mana. Only a little, as if he had just cast a minor spell, but still noticeable, unmistakable.

He peered into the jug, already knowing what the substance had to be. With the lack of light it was difficult to see but from what he could make out, it was pink. Which could mean only one thing: Magebane. They had given him fucking poison instead of water.

He looked back at the plate and chunk of bread. They glistened in what little light there was from the torch. Suspicious, he grabbed the piece of food. It was soppy in his hand, completely soaked. When he brought it to his nose and sniffed it, his face contorted in disgust. That metallic, chemical scent was identical to that of the Magebane in the pitcher. Poison for food and drink!

With a roar of frustration he hurled the gross lump away. It flew between two bars and landed somewhere on the other side. For good measure he tossed both plate and pitcher after it, neither of which made it outside the cell. They clattered against the bars and dropped back to the floor.

Attracted by the ruckus, a guard appeared in front of the cell. His short, straw blond hair looked almost yellow in the torchlight, but Damian was pretty sure he would not have missed the man with a chin rivaling Aveline's, had it been entirely dark. Combined with the bulbous nose and broad face he could have passed for a dwarf if not for his height. "Oh, look at that. The Champion's awake."

Even with the headache hammering on, Damian could not possibly fail to notice the subtle accentuation of his title, which turned it into a mockery. "Let me out."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. Guard-Captain's orders."

"Let me out, I said!" He forced himself to his feet so the guard could no longer look down on him – literally at least – and yanked at the chains. Of course they did not budge and only hurt his wrists, and the already questionable intimidation of an imprisoned, chained man was diminished further by the wave of dizziness which overcame Damian and had him wobbling on his legs. "Aveline can't keep me here! I didn't do anything!"

"Oy now, Champion, "the guard responded irritably, "I don't know what's happened to you but you're bleedin' mad if you think you can assault the Captain and call it nothing. We've already had enough mad people tear this city apart. You're staying where you are." He glanced at the pink puddle near his feet. "I see you haven't gotten a good taste of your drink. I'll fill you up."

"Choke on your poison, you hare-brained coward. Let me out of here!"

The guard simply ignored both demand and insult with professional indifference and walked away. Damian tried to see where he was going but the chains were too short to allow him close to the bars and the man disappeared from his field of vision shortly after exchanging a few words with another guard.

Balance became too difficult to maintain on his unsteady legs and Damian sank to his knees.

_"Fenris is going to die."_

He squeezed his eyes shut. This could not be happening. The Nightmare could not be right. Fenris was out there somewhere, completely alone, quite possibly suffering a relapse and at the mercy of whoever happened to be near. He could be lost, with no means to find the way again or offer resistance when he was taken advantage of. Or he could be injured, imprisoned, even dead already if he had flown into a rage and attacked someone. While Damian was stuck here, thrown into a dungeon by the old friend he had trusted to take care of Fenris when he could not.

His head felt like it was about to burst. He had to get out of this cell, out of Kirkwall. He had to find Fenris. He could not have failed him too, failed him again. For good. He had to make sure Fenris was alright, alive and well. There had to still be time, had to be something he could do.

Sinking back on the mattress, Damian leaned against the wall again. He would not stay here. If Aveline thought her guards and a set of iron bars could keep him in place, she was sorely mistaken. He would do whatever it took to go after Fenris and find him as soon as possible. Including burning a guard to a crisp.

He did not have to wait long for the man to return with a glass bottle in hand, accompanied by the second guard. Damian listened to the shuffling footsteps, peeking through the narrowed slits of his eyes while gathering mana for a spell. The guard must have a key on him. If he could take him out near the cell he only had to destroy the chains to break free and take the key. Failing that, he would just blow the door off its hinges. What little Magebane he had ingested was not going to rob him of his power.

Rather than unlocking and opening the cell door, the guard crouched down and reached between the bars for the pitcher while the other took position behind him, near the row of cells across from Hawke's. Then he uncorked the vial in his other hand and moved to pour the pink liquid into the pitcher.

_Now_. Damian's eyes flew open and he lifted his arms to aim at the blond man. His mind, his will, pushed the energy condensed into flames from his palms. Sparks burst free and rained across his knees. No raging fire, no ball of burning fury reducing the object of his rage to cinders. Just sparks. Tiny, unimpressive flames. He stared at them in disbelief, gaze going from his hands to the shackles and the symbols lighting up on them. He could feel them drink in his magic as soon as it was released.

The guard stumbled back, reaching for his weapon – his comrade had already unsheathed his blade –, startled by the unexpected light show but otherwise unharmed. Damian caught a glimpse of runes glowing on the bars as well before they died down.

So Aveline had him locked up, chained, provided with poisoned water and food, _and_ as additional safeguard on top of all else, used runes to resist his casting attempts. All to prevent him from getting out and going after Fenris to make sure he was safe.

_"Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about."_

Reassured that the runes had rendered the imprisoned champion harmless, the guard finished up filling the pitcher and stepped away. His wry amusement at the situation seemed to have dissipated in the face of Hawke's willingness to attack him and he left without another word. The second warrior, however, remained where he was, eyes firmly set on Damian.

_Lovely. The runes weren't enough either. I'm getting a watch dog too._ Was he to be watched from now on? He was being treated like the most dangerous criminal to have ever walked around Kirkwall. How long were they going to keep up that farce?

Treating his unwelcome observer to a hostile glare, he kicked at the pitcher so it fell over and another surge of Magebane flowed across the tiles. They could spend the next hour wasting all of their damned poison if they liked. Let them delude themselves into thinking that the only danger came from his mana. He grabbed the left shackle and twisted it back and forth. The iron dug into his wrist, chafing skin.

_"Fenris is going to die."_

He had tried to resist, had held back on using blood magic despite the struggles and danger he was confronted with during his time with the Inquisition, but Fenris' safety, his _life_, could be on the line. Everything else was meaningless in the face of that.

Before he had managed to turn the shackle four times he was interrupted by armored feet descending the stairs into the dungeon and then coming in his direction. Yet another guard. Though this one wore a scarf as orange as her hair around her neck to signal her higher rank.

"Let me guess," he drawled when Aveline halted in front of his cell, "you're here to release me."

"You guessed wrong. You will stay here for the time being."

"What? You're honestly planning on keeping me locked in here?! Why?" Indignant anger helped to strengthen his legs and allowed him to stand up once more, although once more he wavered when he did so. "You can't do that! I need to find Fenris!"

"For assaulting the Captain of the Guard alone I could do a lot more, and I have a large file with misdeeds for which you could still be sentenced as well."

"Like _what_?"

"Smuggling, breaking and entering, trespassing on private and public property," she listed matter-of-factly, "destruction of said properties, theft and murder."

"Smuggling?!" he exclaimed. "You want to punish me for what I had to do to get into the city a decade ago? Maker's bouncy tits, what a traitorous hypocrite you are! You're Guard-Captain because of me. You got to _stay_ Guard-Captain because of me. You're even married to your hairy husband because of me! I had to step in with the Arishok, and Orsino and Meredith because you and your guards were too useless to deal with them. And now you're imprisoning me for things I did years ago, things you and many others profited from!"

"Hawke, you're here because you are a blood mage who attacked me in my office." Her voice betrayed impatience, exasperation. "You refuse to be reasonable. The law allows for much harsher action."

"Oh, how merciful. Be so kind to unchain me so I can kiss your feet in gratitude." He rattled with the chains. "Are you a bloody Templar now?"

"I'm not. Which is likely the reason you're still breathing."

Chaining him up, poisoning him, and the red-headed bitch had the gall to play it off as benevolence, as the mildest of possible punishments. Damian was shaking with fury. If not for the shackles suppressing his magic, it would not have surprised him if sparks had flown from his fingers because rage had broken the lock of control on his power. "I've had enough of this. You've had your fun, your petty show of power. Let me go so I can go find Fenris."

"I already told you that you will stay here for now. You attacked–"

"I did not fucking attack you!" he bellowed, interrupting her. "You would be dead if I wanted to attack you! All I did was toss your damned desk around because you put a knife in my back and let Fenris leave. He is in danger because of you and rather than admit it, you throw me in a cell."

Aveline remained impassive under his accusations. Throughout the entire conversation she had not flinched, had barely moved a muscle. She simply stood on the other side of those cursed bars with her arms folded in front of her chest, every inch the unyielding Guard-Captain of Kirkwall. But her face could not shield everything she was feeling. In her green eyes he saw his own hostility reflected. "If Fenris wanted you to know where he is and that you follow him, he would have left a message," she said coldly. "He chose not to, just as he chose not to wait for your return."

That hurt. Even with Aveline's negligence to stop him, the decision to depart must have been Fenris'. The decision to walk away without so much as a warning, a word of farewell. After everything they had been through, the years of struggle, and Fenris could simply turn his back on Damian without looking back. Contemplating that was a torment almost as bad as the possibility of Fenris dying, maybe worse in some – shamefully selfish – regards. So Damian buried the pain of rejection under the urgency of finding the elf and ensuring he was safe. Aveline could claim a great many things. He would not know, not believe, until he looked Fenris in the eye. Aveline was keeping him from that certainty. She was to blame.

"You turned him against me! You and Donnic. Convinced him he had to run from me like I'm..." _a monster. Like Danarius._

This particular accusation appeared to spark greater irritation in Aveline. "Donnic and I did no such thing. All we have done is tell him the truth."

"_Your_ truth."

"Quit playing the victim," she snapped. "It's your own actions that got you into this position. Let him be, Hawke. He is capable of looking after himself and is in no immediate danger."

_"Fenris is going to die."_

He lunged forward, was jerked back by the pain in his shoulders and wrists when the chains reached their limit. "You don't know that! I need to find him!"

He lost his footing and crashed to his knees. Aveline watched it without her expression softening as much as a fraction. "You get some time to cool off first. As you've noticed, we have taken precautions to keep you from using magic. You will be watched at all times as well. Try to injure yourself so you can use blood magic and you will be tied up and gagged so thoroughly that you can't move. Is that clear?"

Damian gritted his teeth so hard his jaw hurt, determined not to answer. He would get out of here. They would make a mistake and he would wait until that moment. They could not keep him here. Not when Fenris could be getting farther and farther away with each passing hour.

* * *

The Kirkwall Guard did not screw up. Alert eyes followed his every move, registered every breath. Who watched him changed frequently but always there was a guard positioned right across his cell. Irritating at first, then it went from frustrating to downright maddening. He was stuck, forced to wait and waste his time. Waste what time Fenris might have left.

_"Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about."_

In the windowless dungeon he quickly lost track of day and night. The meals he was given were the only clue he had to count the days. He did not sleep much. Nightmares and the demon's voice kept him company, kept his mind in a state of fear, his nerves on edge. An edge which was only dulled by the Magebane he was forced to consume. Despite his determination not to give Aveline and her guards the satisfaction of willingly swallowing their poison, thirst soon drove him to submission. The Magebane drained his mana to the point of nonexistence and kept it there. Although it did not cut him off from his magic by weakening his connection to the Fade like Feynriel had done with his dreamer powers, permanently being drained made him feel tired and disoriented, dazed. Like an exhausted muscle which failed to recover lacked the power to move, his will burned low.

In addition to the mandatory guard, Aveline occasionally came by, every few days by Damian's estimation. The second and third time were a repeat of the first and he yelled and raged at her. The fourth and fifth he lacked the will and energy to do more than ignore her and maintain an accusatory silence.

The sixth time he could no longer manage that either. He did not know what it was that broke his resolve in that moment he saw her again, the woman who had been a close and trusted friend for years, almost like a sister. The light of the torch flickered on her face, creating dancing shadows which obscured the contempt and dislike he had come to expect and nearly made it look like sorrow, pity. Maybe that was what did it. Maybe it was the piling up of day after day of hearing the memory of the Nightmare's words echo in his head, combined with images of Fenris dead, injured, suffering, conjured by imagination and dreams. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the other question that bothered, hounded him. The one which should not take precedence, was smaller when he had Fenris' life and wellbeing to worry about. But it was there, with him in that empty cell, in the city without the man he had come to love more than anyone else. It chafed and it hurt.

How could Fenris not have waited for him and left without a word?

"How are you, Hawke?" Twice she had asked that question before. This time it did not enrage him.

"I have an audience whenever I need to shit in a bucket. What do you think?"

"I'm asking."

He let his head lean against the wall. Getting up seemed like too much effort. Initially he wanted to stay silent, but currently Aveline was the only link to Fenris that he had. The one who had seen him, talked to him most recently. "I just want to know how Fenris was doing." He turned just enough so he could look her in the eye. "Please."

A moment of silence. "I told you before, he was well. He has recovered and is back to his old self."

Damian groaned. "How can you be sure? You can't know that for sure."

"He was lucid for over a month and trained for much longer to get his strength back. We had to go to the Gallows a while back and Fenris accompanied us to test his resolve. It went well and he more than proved himself."

"To the Gallows? You took him to the Gallows to do what?"

"To fight. Slavers were hauled up there."

"Of course." He let out a laugh. "He's sick, Aveline! You can't predict when he falls back into thinking he's a slave, even if it's briefly. And you took him to the Gallows to fight slavers and then decided he could be cut loose. That's very reassuring."

"We did as you asked." Her voice had not sounded this mild, this soft before. "We kept track of his progress. We've written down when he had lucid moments, how well his memory functioned and how long they lasted. I can assure you we have been careful."

"But that's not enough! That's no guarantee he won't fall back now he's on his own. You can't know if he was ready to leave."

"The kind of guarantee you're looking for can never be given," she retorted. "For anything. At some point you have to accept that nothing more can be done. Trust that Fenris is doing well without you, even if it's difficult."

"I can't." He shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. He could not shake the fear, the terrible conviction that Fenris was in danger. He could not let it go. Not like this, not without having even looked the elf in the eye. "I can't just... trust and have faith. Not after everything that came before this. I have to see him. I have to know for myself."

"Even when he clearly doesn't want to see you again? I think you owe it to him to respect his wish."

He averted his gaze, stared at the shackles around his wrists, the scars on his left arm and hand. "Even then."


	19. Chapter 19

How to kill a ship full of slavers by himself was the question Fenris struggled to find a satisfying answer to in the days following the visit to his reluctant informer. Getting on board of said ship was the first obstacle he was faced with. Repeatedly he had arrived at the same solution now and yet he found himself examining already rejected possibilities once again, simply because the one he was forced to accept was so damned unappealing.

Being allowed access under the guise of a passenger was the first option he had entertained, but quickly dismissed due to the number of drawbacks attached to it. For one, the slavers demanded coin for the kindness of putting him in chains and selling him to a Tevinter magister. Although he had heard them vary their price based on the estimated wealth of their gullible victims, he still did not possess enough coin to secure a place on the ship. That strategy would get him stripped of weapons and tied up with the rest anyway. With functioning markings Fenris might have dared to go for this illusion of helplessness but nowadays such an illusion would be far closer to reality.

He changed position in his spot on one of the sealed crates stacked against a warehouse, which offered a decent view of the slavers' vessel. Two women were standing on the docks in front of the gangway, waiting to be approached by potential passengers. Their skin was fair – too light for Tevinter natives. Profiteers from the ongoing chaos in the South then, who had no qualms with selling out their own countrymen. Thirst for wealth was hardly an attribute limited to Imperial citizens.

A group of dock workers approached, rolling heavy barrels ahead of them. After the leader had exchanged a few words with the two women, the containers were hauled on board. The ship's cargo would be slaves, so the workers must have come to deliver provisions for the journey. The slavers were likely planning to depart soon. There was not much time left to interfere.

In the two days Fenris had been posting in the docks to watch the ship he had seen a handful of what he assumed to be passengers board. If the slavers intended to set sail soon, most of their "cargo" had to be in the hold already. Bound and gagged to not attract unwanted attention of course. A raid by the City Guard should uncover the truth, but this hypothetical course of action failed to hold up to scrutiny as well. Humans who valued the word of an elf were few and far between, more so when it came to humans in a position of power. Convincing the Guard to investigate with no proof to support his claims was doomed to failure. Aveline would have taken action; Hawke would have forced his way through somehow. But they were not here and what authority either of them had held little weight in Ostwick. Furthermore, the slavers were bold to begin their transport in a southern port city: either they were reckless or they had taken measures to appease the local authorities and keep them out of their hair. Bribes would ensure that the smallest possibility of a guard taking action based on the tip from a tattooed elf from Tevinter was smothered into nonexistence.

No, he would have to do this himself, like he had known from the beginning. Unfortunately that meant he would have to swim in a cold sea to reach the ship. Even in summer that was not something to look forward to – Ostwick's harbor was only marginally cleaner than Kirkwall's – but with spring barely having started it was much more unpleasant, not to mention dangerous. Fighting when he was freezing and his armor was soaked surely added to what was already going to pose a challenge. A strong southwestern wind determined to find the smallest patch of exposed skin and scrape it numb made everyone who set foot outside immediately yearn for the warmth and comfort of a burning hearth, and that was on dry shore, with the sun shining above their heads. In the water, at night... Truly not appealing at all.

Fenris rose from the crate, taking a moment to roll his shoulders and bend his neck sideways, first left, then right. Sitting in the same position in the cold had left him feeling stiff. Tonight he would have to strike. He could not chance to delay and discover the ship had sailed at dawn. What preparations were left he had to take care of now. Two more hours and night would fall.

He had already taken three steps when a realization struck and he spun on his heel. _Fasta vass! _His sword was still on the crate. With the blade not on him he had nearly forgotten about it. Quickly he walked back and snatched it up. After increasingly hostile glares at the hilt sticking out from above his shoulder he had taken to wrapping the sword in cloth to shield it from watchful eyes. In Kirkwall his ties to Hawke – and therefore Aveline as well – had ensured that the law forbidding elves to bear arms had rarely caused issues. Here people would be far less lenient. Cursing his negligence, he checked if the metal was still covered before setting off to the market district. He had a couple of ideas which might just help with his dip in the Waking Sea.

* * *

At approximately one hour past midnight Fenris returned to the docks, sword as well as additional equipment in hand. The busywork of the day had long since died down. Workers had returned home, beggars retreated to their nooks and corners to huddle up and hopefully make it through another cold night. Save for the small groups of sailors wandering around in search of a tavern or inn, the area was quiet. Once he had made sure there was no guard on patrol duty in the vicinity, Fenris crossed the quay to a pier adjacent to, but with two more vessels between it and the slavers' ship. From what he could see in passing there was nobody guarding entrance on the docks, but two people were positioned near the end of the gangway on the ship, their frame illuminated by lanterns. No change from the previous nights. More of the crew was likely keeping watch below deck, ensuring their captives would not dare try anything.

He set his luggage down on the wooden pier, blade on the left, string of rope and oiled leather on the right. Sitting back on his haunches he gathered the corners of the square piece of leather in one hand, then tucked the edges through the circle formed by his thumb and index finger as well so the result looked like a primitive bag. He brought the hole to his mouth, sucked in as large breath as he could, and blew.

Gradually the bag billowed. Nearly as much as he managed to blow in escaped through the folds when he had to pause and inhale again; it seemed to take a small eternity before the leather was pulled taut by the air inside. By that time Fenris' head was spinning from lack of breath. Still seeing stars dancing in his vision, he searched for the rope and tied it around the makeshift balloon as tightly as he could. The other end of the rope he bound to his sword, which he had already wrapped in oil-drenched cloth to protect it from salt water. The balloon would probably not remain intact for very long – air must be escaping from it already – but he hoped the invention would help keep both the blade and himself afloat until he reached the ship.

Standing up he untied his cloak and, staring at the small black waves lapping against the wooden poles supporting the pier, let it drop behind him. He did not wish to ponder what manner of filth had been dumped into the sea. If the smell was anything to go by, many a chamber pot was included.

_This could very well prove a mistake._ His swimming skill was highly limited and so far he had not felt the incentive to change that. He had always been perfectly content with both feet firmly on dry land.

The chill of the wind, only having grown more merciless once night had fallen, brushed over his bare arms. Nevertheless it achieved little beyond a mildly tickling sensation. Good. Perhaps the potent ice salve truly was worth spending what coin he had possessed on. He had rubbed the balm on his entire body back at the inn room he was renting – and now could no longer afford to pay the bill for – before redressing. It made for a sticky mess, especially underneath his armor. The salve was supposed to protect against ice spells and he was not certain how much use it would be for swimming in cold water, but testing it by holding his hand in a bucket of cold water had given cause for optimism.

Fenris looked down at himself, for the last time second-guessing the decision to keep his armor on. In the water it would be nothing but a hindrance, an added risk, and back out of the water it would remain soaked and keep him cold rather than warm. Going into battle naked, however, had to be even worse and he could not gamble on having the opportunity to get dressed once he had climbed on board of the ship – that was, if he could even manage to transport armor without it getting wet.

So no naked swim. Like he had already decided before. Irritated with himself for the doubting and reconsidering he could not seem to stop from doing, he picked up his sword and sat down on the edge of the pier to lower himself into the water. After over a year of tedious recovery it was high time to act. He would rather drown than allow slavers to smoothly sail toward sizeable profits.

Because he did not dare rely on the buoy to keep his sword from sinking yet, Fenris clutched the weapon in one hand as he let himself drop to the dark waves below. The moment he broke through the surface his breath was cut off. Then he went under entirely, the frigid water closing above his head. _Cold._ A completely redundant thought ,but everything else was purged from his mind by the choking hold the cold immediately had on him, the feeling of a thousand needles piercing his skin. Cold and darkness left, right, below and above. Everywhere. Blindly he kicked, mowed his arms to return to the surface, to fresh air to fill his lungs with. As he had expected his armor had become three times as heavy in an instant and threatened to pull him down but he managed to force his head above the waves. He blinked against the water streaming down his face and into his eyes and tried to orientate himself. In front of him floated the buoy. He reached for it, nearly went under again, then successfully got a hold of it. Once he had slung an arm over it the leather bag was pushed a lot deeper in the water but at least it helped him become more stable.

Kicking in an attempt not to put his entire weight on the floating device, he lowered the hand with which he was still holding on to his sword and tested whether he could safely let the weapon dangle from the rope. He would have preferred to keep the blade above the water but for that he was a pair of arms short. The buoy sank a little deeper but seemed to hold up well otherwise.

With a couple more kicks Fenris turned away from the pier and began to navigate towards the slavers' ship, thoroughly wishing he had chosen a spot closer to his destination after all, risk of being spotted be damned. The ice salve helped but could not fully prevent that some of his body warmth was surrendered to the frigid sea with every move. Worse, balm was chafed off where his armor rubbed over his skin during swimming. He could feel parts of his body getting colder, go numb. Joints in particular. He had to make haste and get out of the water as soon as possible. _As if I would have gone for an extra round otherwise._

What energy he had left went to the need to make little sound so he would not betray his presence. The calm weather ensured that an abundance of splashing was almost guaranteed to be heard. He could have gone faster if he did not have to be so careful with his – already increasingly uncoordinated –movements. Perhaps all effort would be in vain and the chattering of his teeth would give him away.

He did not know how long it took to reach the ship. What he did know was that he had lost almost all feeling in his extremities, the weight of his armor could not possibly continue to increase but did so nonetheless, and the buoy had deflated so much it was of barely any use to help him keep his head above the water. Ultimately it had to be the same blindly stubborn persistence which had fueled him during his time on the run from Danarius and had kept him going, that allowed him to eventually close his free hand around the anchor chains of the slavers' vessel. That the rusty iron was even colder than the sea did not even register, the unblemished skin now as numb as the dead markings.

Fenris attempted to pull himself up, mowing with his legs until one was slung across the chain. With his other hand he dragged the buoy in front of him so he could get a hold of the rope that still connected the leather bag to his sword. He wrapped the rope around his hand a few times to keep it from slipping from grasp, then took the anchor chain with both hands and began the climb up. Each link was as thick as three fingers combined and longer than his foot. Although this made it easier to get a good grip, his progress was slow. His wet feet slipped frequently, his arms were trembling either from cold, exertion, or both, and his sword dangling from the rope kept getting in the way.

Every now and then he stilled and listened, craned his neck for a glimpse at the bulwark. Nobody came to cast a look down at the water, alerted by suspicious noises. Fenris was able to continue his climb uninterrupted. A wooden ledge allowed just enough support for his feet once he had gotten close to the ship. From there he could reach the rail. Holding on with one hand, the other hanging down to keep his blade from banging against the wood, he shuffled sideways toward a much broader plank, which supported the rope ladder leading all the way to the crow's nest. There he sat down, shivering, and hunched over his sword to unwrap it. His stiff fingers fumbled with the knots for a while but eventually he was greeted by the cool glint of everite in the moonlight and could remove the oiled cloth. After two tries he let the blade slide through the strap on his back and swung his legs under him so he was on his knees. He peered over the rail, then pulled himself on deck, lowering his torso so he was almost touching the wood. The buoy he left were it was. If he needed it to reach the shore again everything must have gone so wrong that he would not get the chance to inflate it again anyway.

The two guards – one man, one woman, he could see now – were on the other end of the deck, facing away from him. They were not anticipating any trouble to arrive from behind. Off to the right were stairs which gave access to the hold. He might sneak down without being spotted but Fenris knew better than to leave an enemy at his back. The slavers were near each other; taking out both without raising the alarm should be doable. Rising to a crouched pose, he crept closer, each step a conscious process of setting his foot down at a diagonal and slowly rolling it off until it was flat to move soundlessly. Hindered by the cold, his movements were not as fluid as they could have been and took more effort. But he would get warmed up soon. Salt water trickled down his face and neck, dripped from his fingers and armor. A trail of wet footprints was left behind him, but that did not matter. Soon there would be no slavers left to see it.

At a distance of three steps Fennris stopped. He exhaled as calmly as he could while his jaw was still quivering uncontrollably from the cold and he barely managed to prevent his teeth from clattering together. He did not feel nervous, his mind free from worry now. Being outnumbered, alone, cold and wet was no cause for concern. These were not the first slavers he had sent to their deserved end. They would not be the last.

He tensed, prepared, ready. Then he leapt forward, grabbed the slaver on the right by the head, one hand under his chin. One firm jerk and the man slumped, his neck snapped. The female slaver reached for the sword on her hip as her mouth opened for a cry, either of shock or warning. Fenris was faster than her, faster than the sound of her voice. Before he had dropped the body of her companion his fist shot out and hit her in the throat. The scream which had been building up in her lungs was cut off, reduced to a pathetic gurgle. Her fingers slipped from the hilt of her sword and went to her neck, so he pulled the weapon for her instead, yanking it from its sheath and drove it up, through her abdomen. She shuddered when the blade's sharp tip pierced her heart and went limp shortly after. Her blood washed hot over his skin, making his numb fingers tingle.

Fenris stepped back and let her fall, turning towards the entrance of the hold with the short blade still in hand. Everything remained quiet. No sounds of consternation, of people rushing up the stairs to investigate. An encouraging start. He edged closer to the edge of the stairs to look into the hold. From what little he could see, there was no-one standing watch there, at least not near the stairs.

Downstairs were four cabins, two on each side. At the end of the narrow corridor was another set of stairs, descending into the cargo hold where the slaves had to be kept. Fenris moved to the first entrance on the left. None of the cabins had doors, making it easy to enter silently. It was dark, not a single source of light to help him see. Four bunk beds took up almost the entire space; there was only a cramped path left in the middle for getting in and out. The bunks themselves were limited in size as well. A tall human would not be able to lay in one with his legs fully extended.

Going by the lumpiness of the beds, all of them were occupied. Fenris followed the soft noises of peaceful breathing to the first bunk. In the darkness he could not make out much of the sleeping figure. A human, male, lying on his stomach, if he had to hazard a guess. He had little interest in the individual's identity. Leaving him as another nameless, faceless corpse to join the rest would suffice.

Fenris raised the one-handed sword he had taken from the other slaver and dragged it across the sleeper's throat. Deep, languid breathing stopped abruptly, changing to moist choking. Then that ceased too.

He moved from bunk to bunk, cabin to cabin. Death followed swiftly. Some of the sleepers snored, others rasped, coughed or grunted, and some were so quiet they could barely be heard. Every one of them was silenced permanently. Fenris felt no guilt or remorse for ending these strangers' lives while they slept and were defenseless. The people they had tricked into captivity would have had to endure much worse than a quick death in their sleep.

Upon exiting the fourth cabin he tossed the blade he had been using away and drew his own sword. His chances of entering the lowest part of the hold without being noticed were slim and if he was spotted, he would rather have it happen with a trusted weapon in hand. Four beds had been empty. With the two guards on deck dead, two more should be left to watch the captives.

Light came from the opening where the stairs led down – had to be another lantern there. He stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, trying to get a glimpse of the area, forming an image in his mind to prepare, determine his move. One person was standing not far from the stairs, back towards them. No sign of a second guard but Fenris did not take this as reason for optimism. The other was likely positioned on the far end of the hold, facing in the opposite direction.

Light was not the only thing reaching him here; the stench of urine and feces, intermingled with stale sweat, blood and vomit wafted up from below. It was not too bad yet. By the end of the journey the stench would have been much more overwhelming, enough to make the most resilient stomachs turn. He adjusted his grip on the hilt of the sword, tested the weight of it, already trusted, already familiar.

Storming forward, descending the stairs three steps at a time, he raised his sword and let it swoop down. The slaver, a blond, middle-aged man with a beard, had – alerted by both the sound of bare feet leaping down the stairs as well as the other watchman's shout of warning –made a half-turn when Fenris reached him. Like his companions on deck, he did not have the opportunity to pull his weapon. Fenris' blow struck diagonally, precisely where the neck sloped into the shoulder. Metal cleaved through skin, muscle and bone with ease and brought the man to his knees, where he howled in pain. The amount of blood squirting from the wound told Fenris all he needed to know: he had damaged an artery. The slaver would be dead soon.

Soon or not, there was no time to hasten proper end. The remaining guard neared with thundering gait, bridging the gap between himself and the elven warrior within seconds. Fenris was forced to dance around the fighter he had just felled and who was now attempting to grab him by the leg and make him trip. Although the evasion worked, it had him off balance when the other slaver let his enormous battle-axe sweep in front of him, just above waist-height. No sufficient room, nor time, to dodge properly – behind him was the injured but still living slaver; left and right were people, gagged, chained by wrists and ankles; while in front of him was the very alive and apparently very fit warrior – so he went with the only other option left to him: deflect the weapon. Blocking a greataxe mid-swing was impossible, so he hurriedly moved his sword in the battle-axe's path to make it veer off its course, prevent it from slicing open his abdomen.

It worked, in so far as his intestines remained where they should. His weapon, however, was caught by the axe's jagged edges and ripped from his grasp before he could react. Shock, from the force of the hilt being torn out of his hands, from the damning realization he was going to lose – _had already lost_ – his sword, jolted through him. From one moment to the next he was absent weapon.

Or so his opponent believed.

In a reaction driven by an instinct drilled into him through years of rigorous training which had taught him he did not need a weapon but _was_ a weapon, Fenris grabbed the haft of the axe with his right hand as the left shot out toward the slaver's chest. The hardened leather of his armor would not stop him, formed a barrier which might as well not exist. Willing the markings to activate and his arm to shift into incorporeal form, Fenris curled his fingers. Ready to grasp, crush and tear.

His fingers hit the very real solidity of a hardened leather breastplate. For a few heartbeats the flow of battle was disrupted, stunted to an awkward halt despite the lack of victor or even a draw. A few heartbeats in which Fenris comprehended what had happened, what a dumbfounding, unforgivable mistake he had made, while the slaver was visibly taken aback by the bewildering move of flattening a hand against his chest in the most pathetic shove. Around them bodies shifted, chains rattled and muffled cries of confusion, hope and fear resounded in the hold as captives were woken by the noise of battle or by those who had not been asleep and witnessed the arrival of an unknown elf who fought their guards. Fenris stared at his hand pressed against the breastplate, right above the man's heart. There was no blinding blue light, no change in flesh and bone which allowed him to phase through solid objects or bodies. No separating his enemy's heart from chest. Because his markings _no longer functioned. _He could not believe his own foolishness, could barely accept the reality of how much he had messed up just now.

Then the hiccup in the fight passed. The slaver apparently arrived at the conclusion that this had not been some kind of foreign tactic which could overpower him and flashed a glimpse of teeth in a determined growl before yanking the long haft of his battle-axe out of Fenris' hand. Foreseeing what was about to happen, the elf opted for an evasive maneuver this time around. But he was too close to the human and something blocked his feet when he wanted to side-step, tripping him. He felt the burning sting of a fresh wound, the axe nicking him in the arm as he fell. _Venhedis!_

Now it was his own blood warming his cold, wet skin as it began to trickle down his triceps towards his elbow. He turned his head to get a look behind him. The cut ran from the side of his arm to the back; nothing too serious in itself – the injury to his pride far more grieving. He also understood what had caused him to fall down. The wounded slaver had crawled toward him and once more attempted to grab him by the ankle. Lacking the strength to exert much force with life bleeding out of him, he had ended up simply lying in the way. Fenris had stumbled over the man's arms.

But it was irrelevant how he ended up here, on his hands and knees and with a cut in his right arm. What was important was that he had no weapon while his opponent wielded– Fenris quickly raised his head at the whooshing of air and rolled out of the way of the incoming axe. Wood splintered where he had just been kneeling.

"Get over here, you knife-eared rat!"

Where was his sword? It could not be far, had to be only just out of reach... While he cast a feverish glance around and got to his feet, his left hand went to his middle. Why he did not know. Perhaps it was a purely coincidental move. Or perhaps it had purpose, a piece of his mind remembering what the rest had forgotten guiding his fingers to the slender handle wrapped in leather, tucked behind his belt. The handle of a knife, the knife he had taken right before leaving Kirkwall for... no true reason. The stray thought that it might prove useful at some point. A whim he had quickly stopped thinking about, had ignored.

He gripped the knife on his hip, leaning forward a little so it was kept from the slaver's view. Waiting for that opportunity he knew would come, he raised one corner of his mouth in a taunting smile. "Is that the best you can do?"

The slaver swung his greataxe in a wide arc and Fenris jumped back, just out of the blade's reach. Assuming the elf would continue to dodge by moving backwards, the human warrior moved to come forward as he prepared another swing. But Fenris took him by surprise by darting forward and closing the distance between them. So near that he could feel the man's breath on his cheek, he rammed the knife through the soft tissue on the underside of the human's stubbled chin. Blood darkened the already red leather of the handle.

He twisted the knife before removing it, stabbed again as the axe dropped from the slaver's hands and the warrior's knees buckled. Fenris placed one foot on the axe's haft while he waited for the man to stop moving. The other one appeared equally occupied with his dying breaths.

Fenris let his gaze wander through the cargo hold. Captives – men, women, from children to middle-aged and even a couple of elderly, elves and humans, two dwarves – were squeezed together to fit in as many as possible, each individual having a space of about three square feet to themselves. There had to be at least fifty people stowed away here like cattle. Less than cattle.

All eyes were on him, many dull, uncomprehending from shock. Others shone with tears. The looks he was getting and the range of expressions he saw on the faces around him made him uncomfortable, so he averted his gaze to examine the cut in his arm. It would mend, provided he could clean it and prevent it from festering after having swum in filthy sea water. _Well..._ he thought, a smile forming despite his unease, _at least I'm not dead._


	20. Chapter 20

_"Fenris is going to die."_

"Oh, just shut up." It was not until Damian Hawke noticed the look of bewilderment he was getting from his guard that he realized he had spoken those words out loud.

That bloody Nightmare all the bloody time. How much longer would he have to endure this? How much longer would he be stuck here, locked up and chained in a cold cell? With each day the chance he would ever see Fenris again shrunk. The uncertainty, not knowing where the elf was, how he was doing, if he was even still alive, was maddening.

_"Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you."_

So true those words had turned out to be, albeit for the one they had been spoken to. With nothing to do but sit around day in day out, his mind, sluggish from the continuous supply of Magebane, often wandered to past memories of better times, happier moments. Brief escapes from the fear and despair. Professions of love and trust, craving of touch, warmth, caresses. Precious and rare like diamonds they were, while they should have become numerous, as countless pebbles in a river stream. Not unusual or exceptional at first sight, as a whole, yet beautiful in their smooth, round shape, unique in individual patterns and colorings. It had all gone to the Void. Everything he had had to do to save Fenris, and now the only rocks he was surrounded with were the damned stones of a prison cell.

He twisted the shackles around his wrists. At the first sign of the cuffs chafing skin the guards had bandaged him from knuckles to elbow. Maybe he should be grateful that his wrists were not being scraped bloody by the metal digging into them but the weight had still caused the bone to bruise and the blasted bandages itched worse than lice.

Had it truly ended here, like this? Was the moment he had left Fenris with Aveline to be the last time he had seen him? An end without him even realizing it. Was walking out on a subservient Fenris, begging not to be left behind, their farewell? It could not be. Hawke refused to accept that. He had to hold out hope, had to believe that Fenris was still around. Fenris was a fighter. A survivor. He had made it through so much. He was still alive, had to be, and Damian would find him. Somewhere. Somehow.

Initially he did not look up when he heard someone descend into the dungeon and head in his direction. Seeing who was to stare at him from behind the rune-covered bars had ceased to be interesting days ago. They were all the same anyway. Some of the guards had dared a joke at the expense of their Champion but none of them had been clever, never mind funny. A few had been disgruntled by the disgrace of their former fellow defender of Kirkwall and his betrayal that was "assaulting" the Guard-Captain. Damian was about as interested in their jokes as in how he currently ranked in their esteem. His poisoned food and drink was not something he was eagerly awaiting either, so the arrival or changing of guards was hardly worth paying attention to.

A key turning in the lock of his cell changed that. That was a first. Until now the door to the cell had only been opened the one time they had to bandage his wrists.

"Drink this." A vial was shoved under his nose. The pink liquid swirling inside was all too familiar at this point.

Damian pushed the vial away, making a face at the guard towering over him. A special visit just to hand him an additional dose of poison? "No thanks. I'm not thirsty yet."

"Do you wish to get out of here or not?"

_Well, if you put it that way..._ After regarding it with distaste for a bit longer, he snatched the poison from the other man's hand and set the vial to his lips. Regular doses of Magebane kept his mana nonexistent so there was nothing to deplete. It did about as much as throwing water on an already extinguished campfire, merely making a return of the flames even less likely. Maybe the mysterious power which was responsible for the regeneration of his magic had given up altogether at this point and no longer bothered in the first place.

The foul taste he still could not get used to. No matter how many times he was forced to drink it, despite it being the only damned flavor he got to taste, it remained disgusting. The strange association with bad lyrium reminded him of rot.

"Ugh. Did you piss in it to add flavor?"

The guard ignored him but crouched down to do something very unexpected: stick a key in the locks of Hawke's shackles and turn it so they clicked open. Damian stared at his wrists, his ridiculously bandaged forearms, now freed from chains. Despite what the guard had just said about wanting to get out of the cell, he had not seen this coming. At least not quite like this. So abrupt, matter-of-fact. Was Aveline truly releasing him without as much as a final lecture on the many ways he had misbehaved and disgraced himself and betrayed what she once respected in him?

"The Captain is expecting you on the city walls."

Oh. There it was. He had to walk to his lecture rather than having it come to him. "And if I don't feel like going that way?"

"Then you can stay here."

Predictable. Yet no less annoying. Damian stiffly hoisted himself to his feet. "I'm to be released so I'm free to go wherever I please. If I don't feel like seeing the Captain, you can't make me."

"I was instructed to escort you to the Captain on the city walls," the red-headed man informed him. "Not to release you and let you wander off. So are you coming?"

"Yes," Damian grumbled. "Lead the way."

"Don't try anything," the guard warned, turning around.

"Like what?"

The guard remained silent for a while, shoulders stiffening as he found himself caught in the dilemma whether he would provide some inspirational suggestions or admit that there was little of meaning Hawke could do when he was unarmed, robbed of his magic and completely on his own. Either he could not think of helpful ideas or he arrived at the conclusion how pointless his warning was, because "Just don't try anything," was the retort he settled on.

The man who had been standing watch followed Damian and his kind liberator to climb the stairs so he had a guard in front of and behind him. Light, actual sunlight, greeted them on the next floor, spilling through a window like it was the most ordinary, natural thing in the world. Which it probably was, except when you had just spend over a week – likely two – in a dark dungeon. Damian's spirits improved as soon as he reached the bright hallways of Viscount's Keep. Everything seemed slightly less hopeless back in the light of the sun. Aveline could not postpone his imprisonment indefinitely and now her petty attempt at retribution had come to an end. She would get to have her final lecture and then he would be off to search for Fenris. It would be alright. Everything would be alright.

_"Fenris is going to die."_

_No, he won't. I'll find him in time. I'll make sure of it._ He peeled the bandages off his arm along the way and dropped them to the ground.

This alerted guard number two. "What are you doing?"

"Taking them off," Damian replied while starting on the second set.

Guard number one looked over his shoulder to see what was going on. "Remember what I said. Don't try anything."

"If I don't _try_ to walk you'll have to carry me."

"Trying to be funny?"

"I don't have to try for that."

"Just stop talking," Guard number two said, sounding exasperated. Obviously not trusting Hawke to not be planning anything devious with the removal of his bandages he moved to walk next to him and watch him more closely.

Damian raised his eyes to the ceiling. _Just a little bit longer with this nonsense._

They exited the Keep, marched across the square and down the stairs, where they turned left. As they passed, Damian looked back at the proud facade of the Amell estate behind him. He had worked his way up to live there, then had been forced to leave it behind again. Suddenly he wondered if the estate was still in his possession. He had never sold it but neither had he set foot in it for four years. Had the Viscount allowed the deed to be passed on to somebody else? From outside the ivy-covered walls it was impossible to guess whether the place was inhabited. Maybe someone was squatting in it. Though if there was, chances were they were no angry, white-haired escaped slave.

Crumbling the bandage in his hand he focused his gaze ahead of him. It was irrelevant whether he still owned the estate. He would leave Kirkwall again today anyway. He had no need for a home, luxurious or otherwise.

Guard number one led them through a gate which appeared different from what Damian remembered. The reason for the change quickly revealed itself when they reached a second gate and with that the Chantry square. Or, more precisely: what had once been the Chantry square. The square itself had been paved anew with Hightown's characteristic light grey stones but the Chanter's board, the white marble column with copper sword and rays of the sun crowning it, where priests and priestesses posted notices calling upon the aid of the faithful, was gone. Also gone were the stairs leading up to the Chantry on either side of the board. The two proud statues of Andraste clutching a raised sword atop their pedestals: gone. The Chantry itself with its tall towers reaching for the sky – only rivaled by Viscount's Keep in height – maroon banners, as well as the two gigantic, unnerving Templar statues holding a spear: one big crater. Not a single wall had survived Anders' explosion. Where once had stood the second-largest building in Kirkwall was nothing left but a hole in the ground, an ugly scar reminding of the destruction of the Chantry's might.

The bomb's devastating effect had not been limited to the Chantry building either. The city walls guarding the square looked like they had been rebuilt and did not fully match the style of the original construction around it. Pillars had been foregone in favor of a simple, straight wall.

Both guards must have gotten used to the sight of the crater, because they did not slow their step like Damian did until he received a shove between the shoulder blades, urging him to keep walking. He had only witnessed the explosion from afar in Lowtown and, forced to flee on the eve of the resulting battle, never visited the site afterwards. From afar the destruction had hardly seemed modest, yet to pass a hole in the ground like he used to pass the Chantry building when its destruction had been years ago was chilling. All the more because Anders had coerced him into serving as a distraction for the Grand Cleric so the bomb could be placed. _I sure know how to pick my friends._

Guard number one unlocked a door and after ascending a spiral staircase they were on top of the new city wall. Aveline was standing not far from the access point, dressed in her guardswoman armor with sword and shield on her back, and overlooking the green mountain slopes stretching out north of Kirkwall as far as the eye could see. She looked over her shoulder at the arrival of the newcomers but did not turn around.

"The Ch- prisoner, Captain," guard number one informed her.

A quick nod served as reply. "Dismissed."

Guard number one exchanged a glance with number two before they brought a fist to their chest in salute and retreated from the wall. Damian barely kept the quip that there were no desks which could be used in an "assault" in the vicinity and that there was thus nothing to fear locked behind his teeth. Behind the cover of the wall the weather had seemed calm and pleasant, if a little cold. Out in the open the wind had free rein from across the Waking Sea and blew his hair, tangled, dirty and long since escaped from its braid, in his face and chilled him in his plain shirt and trousers. Rubbing his arms in a vain attempt to warm up, he waited for Aveline to say something but she stoically continued to stare at the landscape below. It did not take long before he had had enough and moved forward, his mouth opening for an irritated goodbye. He was not going to stand around waiting for her to deign to say whatever she had to say when he had a Maker-knew-how-long search ahead of him. Judging by the position of the sun it was not long past noon. He could still make good progress in whichever directed he decided to go.

His mouth closed with an audible click when his horizon expanded from the sky and Sundermount's snowy peaks looming in the distance. Grassy hills with flat terraces as their tops, lots of rocks, here and there a lone tree or shrub, soldiers. Hundreds – likely even close to two thousand – of small figures in uniform occupied the slopes, moving about as they carried out the tasks assigned to them. Tents were already being erected, an area for the horses fenced in. The cacophony of soldier's shouts, singing, jeering, horses neighing, hammers slamming onto wood, and so much more rolled to Kirkwall's walls like thunder in an approaching storm. All too recently he had been on the other side of this situation at Adamant. _They're going to lay siege to the city._

Stepping away from the battlement, he moved towards the stairs. "Well... Good luck with that."

"Not so fast." Though Aveline did not move from her spot, her voice made him halt in his retreat. Only then did the ginger-haired woman finally make eye contact. "Look at the banners."

Damian eyed her suspiciously for a moment, ready to object. Why would he care about the symbol of Kirkwall's enemy and who it represented? Chances were he would not even be able to place it. Mother's lessons on the various houses in the Free Marches and their respective heraldries had not exactly left a lasting impression. Yet something about Aveline, her tone, the look on her freckled face, made him give in. She appeared calm, confident, while surely she had to be feeling sick in her stomach now she had an army at her doorstep. Slowly he returned to the battlement and, placing his hands on the rough surface, leaned forward in search of a banner.

Spotting one proved easy enough. At even distances standards had been driven into the ground, proudly displaying their waving flags. The fabric rippled in the wind and his eyes had to strain to see what was on them. A white goblet formed the center of the heraldry, contrasting starkly with the crimson field it was on. Circling the cup were three rather stylistic depictions of dragons in black. He recognized that image, the only one in addition to Kirkwall's red winged dragon to have remained at the back of his mind and to be tied to a meaning.

_"I will bring such an army with me on my return that there'll be nothing left of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule."_

His fingers pressed against the merlon as if they could dig into the hard stone. He stared at the banners without blinking until his eyes watered.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me."

Those standards bore the Starkhaven heraldry.

He spun around to face Aveline. " For weeks you keep me imprisoned and now Sebastian fucking Vael is here with an army at his back?!"

"I didn't invite him, Hawke," she replied with an edge to her tone.

"Of course not," he sneered. "And I'm sure you had absolutely no clue that he was coming either. The pigs in Starkhaven conveniently sprouted wings yesterday and his soldiers flew here to take you by surprise. Such a shock! He came all the way from Starkhaven, not the bloody Hanged Man!"

"We were aware that Sebastian's army left Starkhaven eight days ago but the reports claimed they were marching to protect remote villages from demons coming from the rifts. He's kept this close under wraps."

"Close under the wraps," Damian mimicked. "Except for the time he _told us_ that he was sauntering back to his city to get an army to raze Kirkwall to the ground. And you just kept me in prison until he arrived! He wants me dead, Aveline! Am I supposed to believe it's a nice big coincidence that he arrived just while I'm here? Because I don't. He's out for revenge." He turned on his heel, strode away from her with large steps, then whirled around to stomp back. "You know what, I remain with what I said. Good luck with the invasion. I'm out of here now there's still a chance. I'm not going to sit on my ass so he can collect my head when it's convenient and you've wasted enough of my time. I have to find Fenris."

Aveline's pale cheeks took on a pink shade as he brushed past. "You're not leaving this city, Hawke. You are partially responsible for this mess and you're going to help me fix it. Or so help me, I will have you tossed over the wall to appease Sebastian."

Damian froze, hands clenching into fists. Slowly he looked over his shoulder, met her eyes. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?"

For several long seconds he stared at her, trying to gauge if she would act on her threat.

The Captain of the Guard stared back with unrelenting gaze. Rage had him quiver on his feet, his frustration so raw that it made him want to scream. Stuck in Kirkwall for a siege. While Fenris was... somewhere. Out of reach. It was unbelievable. The Maker had to be taking a piss of epic proportions on him. Never mind that, he was being shat upon. He was out of his cell and yet just as trapped in this cursed city.

He had lost. He knew it. Standing here with gooseflesh on his arms, absent magic or weapon, he could not call her bluff. Refusing to cooperate would get him returned to prison. Fighting while he was vulnerable would yield the same outcome. Or get him killed. There was no other option but to yield to Aveline's demand. But he could not get the submission over his lips.

Abruptly he averted his face and leaned down on the merlon once more. Unsurprisingly, Sebastian's army was still there, busy setting up camp. _Void take them._

Aveline correctly interpreted his move as one of grudging agreement. "His ships are anchored near the passage through the cliffs. We've raised the chains to prevent them from sailing straight into the harbor but that means our route to sea is blocked too. We're cut off."

"What am I even supposed to do?" he snapped at the stone block under his hands. "First you have your men shove poison down my throat and now I'm expected to rain fire down on Sebastian and his army? I can't light as much as a fart anymore."

"Your magic will come back soon enough."

He snorted so hard it made his throat ache. "How nice. Am I to return to my cell in between heroic battles against our invader?"

"No, if you behave you will be free to stay elsewhere in the city," she said coolly.

Free. The word made the blood boil in his veins. Free to be trapped. But before he could treat Aveline to a piece of his mind, a rider on a white horse coursed through the growing camp below and left it behind, galloping straight to the steep slope and the city wall on top of it. "Someone's coming."

The mount was so spotless, of such a pure white, that it almost seemed to glow like the snow on Sundermount. Its rider was equally flawless, his white armor glittering in the sun. The rider reined in his horse several yards from the city wall and had it make a quarter rotation so it was dancing in its spot parallel to the wall. Sebastian raised his head, and although the distance was too great to properly see his eyes, it was clear he was looking right at them. Damian could swear the prince locked gazes with him. In his left hand he was holding a bow.

Next to Hawke Aveline took her shield from her back, alert for every move Sebastian could make. Damian shot her a skeptical look. "He won't make that shot."

Keeping his horse in check with his legs, the Prince of Starkhaven let the reins slip from grasp and raised his bow. Within two seconds an arrow was lined up, aimed and released. Launched from the string it flew up, described an elegant arch, then finally shot down to connect with Aveline's shield, which had been brought up to protect both herself and Hawke just in time.

"Son of a..." The sound of the arrow head burying into the shield was still resonating while Sebastian dug his heels into the flanks of his mount, made a turn and rode back to the camp. As far as Damian could tell he had not even bothered to look whether his target had been hit.

Aveline's expression had "what were you saying?" written all over it when she lowered the shield but Damian did not feel the need to acknowledge that he had misjudged. The arrow sticking out of the shield already made that painfully obvious.

"There is a message attached to it." Aveline untied the rope with which the scroll had been bound to the arrow. The three dragons of the Starkhaven heraldry stared at them from the seal pressed into red wax. Aveline broke the seal and examined the letter. "Our prince desires a meeting with Interim Viscount Bran, the Captain of the Guard and the Champion."


	21. Chapter 21

Neither of the dead slavers in the hold appeared to have a key on them to unlock the shackles of their captives. Fenris searched their belts and every pocket but, aside from two coin pouches, came up empty-handed. Probably another precaution to ensure nobody would attempt to take the guards by surprise. There was little point in overpowering them if the chains remained no matter what. Somebody else must have them. The buzz of voices became louder as more slaves managed to remove their gags, pitch of their pleas rising when he retrieved his sword and moved to the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"Don't leave us here!"

"Have mercy!"

He held still on the first step and turned back. " I need the keys to release you. I will not desert you."

Although his words reduced the unrest to a more quiet murmur they clearly failed to completely set the collective mind at ease. Fear and uncertainty hung almost tangible in the air, so heavy it was a wonder the ship did not sink under the weight. Several shrill "Please free us!" were on Fenris' heels when he climbed out of the hold.

He did not deem it likely that any of the sleepers he had killed would have the key he needed on them. Something like this would be reserved for one of authority, a leader. And on a ship it was obvious who could be considered of the highest station. Invigorated by his victory he made his way to the deck with renewed energy. He was still soaking wet, covered in a layer of the grime floating on the sea's surface and the cut in his arm was throbbing, but currently he did not feel quite as cold as before. It was good to be free – even better to send those who would have freedom taken away to the Void.

Everything was still as quiet on deck as when he had ventured below. The bodies lay where he had left them, albeit in a larger pool of blood. Fenris paid them no heed, going straight for the captain's cabin. The handle did not budge to his touch. Locked. He examined the door for a few moments, contemplating how to get this barrier out of the way, then went to the rail to scan the docks for movement. In the dark of night it was impossible to be certain that nobody was near. In the end he could only hope there were no guards or passersby to be alarmed by the sound of rather crude burglary skills. Perhaps he should have taken up Isabela's offer of following a couple of "lessons" – although he doubted those lessons would actually have involved developing abilities suitable outside the bedchamber – after all.

Raising his blade he took position in front of the door. Forcing entry was certain to alert even a soundly sleeping captain. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, tested his balance. Once he was certain that he was standing securely, Fenris leaned back and kicked with all his might, hitting the door right beside the lock. The wood croaked, came close to cracking under the force, which it did when he dealt two more swift kicks. First the planks bent, then broke completely, splintering around the lock. The door flew back in its hinges, bouncing forward when their maximum reach could not accommodate the force of the swing. The wood colliding with his injured arm as he stormed into the dark cabin had pain radiating from the gash but his mind, trained to ignore physical discomforts when necessary, expertly suppressed the sensation. Light from the lantern on deck barely reached into the modest space, only just about enough to differentiate between table, bunk and closet. So it was with hesitation that he came to a halt in the center of the room when he was unable to spot his target. There was no-one hurriedly sitting up in the bunk, struggling with the blankets to get out of bed. No curses in response to rudely being woken, not even the continued snoring of Thedas' most sound sleeper. No glimmering sharp blade to meet his own.

"Fasta vass!" Fenris let out a curse himself. He crossed the distance to the bunk but the lumpy sheets could not even have concealed a ghast, never mind anything bigger. He turned around, kicking the chair at the table away to look under it, yet only found confirmed what he already knew.

The captain's cabin was empty.

To be safe he made a complete round through the cabin, from piece of furniture to piece of furniture, but the ship was not very large and did not offer a lot of places to hide. Eventually he lowered his sword in defeat as he found no enemy to blunt it on, though his eyes continued to shoot left and right as if they still treasured hope of spotting the leader of the slavers. This was bad. This was a problem. When had the captain left the ship? Not that the exact moment truly mattered. There had been no light shining through the window when Fenris had come on board so it must have been well before that. The why was not relevant either. To visit a brothel, sleep in a more comfortable bed, enjoy drinks and games of cards in a tavern. What mattered was that one of them had gotten away. If the two operations Dagmar had mentioned were connected, that one would warn the remainder of the slavers. Dealing with those would become considerably more complicated.

Yet as much as he might wish it, there was nothing he could do about it now. Hunting for the captain in the city was doomed to prove a waste of time and waiting for him to return to the ship too much of a risk. It only increased the odds of drawing attention. And the ship's hold was still packed with prisoners waiting to be set free. Seeing everyone safely to the docks would be time-consuming enough.

Sliding his sword through the strap on his back he stepped toward the table, to the shine of glass on the surface. After a bit of fumbling and feeling around his fingers bumped against a flint and he had the means to light the tiny stump of candle in the lantern. The yellow light of the flame flickered, casting monstrous dancing shadows across the room and bringing some warmth to the cold air. With the lantern held high in front of him with his left hand and his right on the haft of the knife – Hawke's knife – he had stuck behind his belt again, Fenris inspected the cabin once more, starting with the bed. It had not been made, the blankets bumpy and pushed to the foot of the bunk, but when he touched the pillow and mattress they were cold. They had not recently been slept on. The mess appeared to be the result of sloppiness rather than a hasty escape in the middle of the night.

He continued his investigation, pulled open the drawers of a cabinet – yield: five health potions –, lifted the lid of a chest – multiple pouches with coin, of which he took a couple of silvers for his own purse and the rest to give to the prisoners –, and finally bent over the table to have a look at the papers spread out there. A map, two letters, some loose notes. Deciphering the crooked handwriting took some effort but the content seemed promising. The dwarven informant had been correct: the slavers had a route through the Vimmark Mountains. Combined with the old caverns which dotted the region from the coast to the mountains they had the perfect way to smuggle their wares to the Imperium.

Satisfied, Fenris straightened. He would have a more thorough look at everything when he was done here. Now to find the key... He could only hope that it was not travelling Ostwick with the missing captain.

Fortunately he found it hanging on a nail near the door. With rusty key and lantern in hand he exited the cabin, taking a moment to have another look at the two corpses near the gangway. No sign of boot prints in the pools of blood. It truly seemed like the captain had not been on the ship before Fenris' arrival. And if not... he would probably notice soon enough if reinforcements showed up, though he deemed that unlikely. Even so, he should not tarry. The sooner everyone was out of those chains, the better.

Unrest flared up in the hold once more while he descended the stairs; murmurs of fear when the captives saw someone approaching turned to relief, anticipation, rising to a cacophony of pleas. Chains clanked, people groaned and pleaded, stretching out their hands in attempts to touch his legs as he passed. Careful not to step on anyone he waded to the back and knelt down in front of a small redheaded human woman. Her left eye was swollen shut, blue, black and purple overruling the natural tan of her skin. The entire hold fell silent when Fenris set down the lantern and inserted the key in the heavy shackles around her wrists, everyone collectively holding their breath. With the click of the lock, the shackles springing open, he seemed to have unlocked the captives' ability to breathe as well. If the previous tumult had been loud, now it was close to deafening, dozens of throats screaming in joy and begging to be freed next. The woman swallowed back a sob when she was helped out of the chains, her lips forming a quiet "thank you" while he started on removing the metal around her ankles. Bruises matching the one in the face dotted her arms and legs and where the heavy shackles had been raw red marks ringed ankles and wrists. He gave her what he hoped counted as an encouraging smile – was actually a twitch of the corners of his mouth – before moving to the older man beside her.

One by one the prisoners were freed from their bonds. Minor injuries like on the red-haired woman were common – bloodied circles from metal digging into flesh, dark colored bruises from the slavers' treatment – yet multiple people had suffered more serious ones, like broken bones or cuts. Minor or serious, none of the injuries appeared to have been treated. The well-being of their wares was of little concern to slave-traders; ingraining obedience as soon as possible was much more important and slavers were excellent teachers on that front. Every mark was a lesson in submission, pain serving as a reminder of what would happen to those who resisted and fought. At regular intervals Fenris had to force his muscles, tensing in white hot fury, to relax, his hands to stop quivering with rage. Briefly he wondered if he had once been packed on a similar vessel with his mother and sister, beaten, chained and confused. Had they been captured on Seheron and transported to the Imperium? Had his father still been alive then? A few of the many questions he had wanted to ask his sister, yet would forever remain unanswered like the rest of them. He did not need to add more wrongs and grievances to his past, did not lack reasons to hate and resent, but looking at the children curling against the parent next to them or into themselves, he could picture it: he and Varania clinging to their mother, each on one side, while she was helpless to offer any kind of reassurance or protection. How anyone who had known freedom, tasted it, could claim _this_ was preferable went far beyond his comprehension. Those who had convinced themselves of that were either too broken by oppression or deserved to be put in chains themselves to feel what it was like to have that weight bring you down.

Although he had rarely, if ever, been chained like these people as Danarius' bodyguard – perfectly obedient pet he had been –, he experienced a pang of relief, felt just a little bit lighter with every set of shackles that fell to the ground. He had cast down his own chains already, yet some of the weight remained and doing this seemed to lighten it ever so slightly. Perhaps it even felt as good as killing those who were responsible. Almost.

Around him friends, family and lovers wept, laughed and fell into each other's arms in relief as more and more of them were released. A growing number of people crowded around Fenris as well to pat him on the back, touch his arms, take his hand. Two or three even tried to pull him into a hug or kiss his cheeks. He dodged them like he had previously dodged the slaver's battle-axe but it proved impossible to shrug every single attempt off. In the end he was relieved in more ways than one when he had finally freed the last captive and was able to retreat a couple of steps from the cramped space up the stairs. Fifty pairs of eyes focused on him, watched him with undivided attention. For the first time complete silence descended on the hold.

Realizing they were expecting him to say something, he awkwardly coughed in his hand. It was not like he had prepared a speech for this moment. "There is nothing to fear. You have your freedom. Be careful not to lose it again."

"Thank you, Serah!" The group pressed forward, moved up the stairs to get closer. "A thousand blessings upon you!"

He had to suppress the itching tendency to mask his embarrassment with another cough. He truly was not cut out for the role of savior or champion. "You should leave the ship. I have dealt with everyone on board but it's better not to linger. Divide this," he handed the coin he had taken from the cabin to the people in front of him, "equally among you. Have your injuries treated and start anew somewhere safe."

While the coin was distributed and passed along to the people standing farther back he was again thanked profusely, regarded with gratitude and awe. Those around him were abuzz with questions. What was his name, where was he from, why was he here, how could they ever repay him, what should they do now, where should they go, would he stay with them? He was barely given the chance to reply to most of them. Not that he really minded – the answers he did give were minimal.

The flood of questions was interrupted by a man in the back of the hold raising his voice. "Excuse me!" The words were repeated a few times until the rest began to fall silent to hear what he had to say. "This is less coin than what was taken from us."

All eyes immediately went to Fenris. "And?"

"And I want the coin back these imposters stole from me! Not everyone carried the same amount of coin with them. It's not fair to hand it out like this."

"As a slave you would not even be able to claim ownership over your own body." He could not see much of the man's features. It was too dark in the hold and the human was standing too far away, blending in with the crowd, so Fenris simply addressed everyone. " I haven't seen logs listing how much the slavers took from all of you and I will not play banker to oversee the return of every copper you owned. Either sort this out yourselves or accept that foolishly falling for the slavers' act cost you, but do it at the docks and not here. You're fortunate to have anything returned to you in the first place."

He could sense the indignation ripple through the crowd at being called out on their naivety but did not intend to dull his bluntness. Better to have them see how laying your trust in the wrong person could mean your doom than to insist there was nothing they could have done to prevent this from happening. But he had no desire to get tangled up in an argument. If coin was the most important thing on their minds right now they were free to fight about it. He turned away and climbed the remainder of the stairs. "You don't realize what you escaped from."

He had not made it to the deck yet when he heard more footsteps behind him. Unsurprisingly the prisoners were not eager to stay in the stinking hold a moment longer than necessary. Trusting they would find their way off the ship by themselves, Fenris returned to the captain's cabin to study the documents left there. With the idle hope to stumble upon something that could hint at the missing captain's current whereabouts – the name of a contact, an address, anything – he conducted a more thorough search. Yet after examining every drawer for secret compartments, the bottom of the table and chair, the mattress and the bed, the floor boards and the walls, he was forced to conclude that there was no hidden information to be found. He would have to make do with the map showing the location of and the route to their camp in the mountains. Pensive he stared at the sketched peaks of the Vimmark Mountains for a while. Without having seen the location and knowing more of the slavers' numbers and the people they had captured it was impossible to form a plan at this instant. Perhaps if he made the journey quickly enough he could get there before the captain's warning reached his colleagues... Which was not something to count on.

First things first. Time to see this successful operation concluded. He gathered every piece of parchment and moved to leave the cabin, only to halt straight away when finally spotting the child watching him from the door opening. Chewing on a strand of her bird's nest of hair in an unidentifiable shade of brown, she looked up at him. With her grimy, stained face, still round and innocent with youth, Fenris guessed her to be nine or ten summers old at most, but her eyes were of a different age. They shone with a determination that belied any appearance of childishness. One particularly dark spot, either a plaque of blood or more dirt, decorated her right cheek. Her dress was even filthier, frayed at the seams and appeared fairly thin for this time of year. Bands of skin scraped red and raw on her wrists and ankles proved she was among those who had just been freed from her shackles.

"Shouldn't you be leaving with your parents?" he asked her. How long had she been standing there? He did not see anyone else nearby, no relative waiting for her to move.

"I don't have any parents. They're dead."

Ah. A problem ready to announce itself, he could feel it. "Did the slavers kill them?"

She shook her head, flinging tangled, matted hair from left to right. "Demons."

"I'm sorry." In his most patient, empathetic voice he made one more attempt to steer away from the problem: "You should go with the others before they get too far ahead." Surely they were waiting for this child on the docks. They would not leave her on the slavers' ship to wander.

"I want to stay with you."

"I fear that would be impossible," he told her, still patient, understanding. "Staying with me is too dangerous. The people you were with can take care of you."

Defiantly she raised her button nose even more and pulled the moist strand of hair from her mouth. What he in the limited light had taken for a stain on her cheek turned out to be a mole of half an inch in diameter. "I went with them before and we ended up here. I think it's safer with you."

_Fair enough..._ though Fenris could not admit that. A child following him around was about the last thing he could use. "That does not mean it will be safer to stay with me." When she did not respond to that he pressed again. "You must go with the others."

"Are you going to kill them all?"

He could pretend not to understand who or what she was referring to but the evasion seemed unnecessary. She had witnessed his fight with the two men in the hold, must have seen the corpses on the deck. "You need not concern yourself with that. None of the slavers on this ship survived. You have your freedom and you are safe." A solution came to him. "If you do not wish to stay with the people you were with, go to the Chantry. The Sisters can take you in."

"I don't want to go to the Chantry!" This exclamation was accompanied by clenched fists and a stomping of feet. "I'm going with you. There are more bad men and you need to kill them! They have my brother."

That had to sink in for a moment. "The slavers took your brother?" Fenris asked cautiously. "Where to?"

"I don't know." Her bottom lip trembled. "They said the boat wasn't big enough for everyone so they sent some people outside the city. I wanted to stay with Stef but the slavers made me go to the boat. You can find him, can't you? Like you found us."

Would the child's brother have been taken to the camp in the mountains? It was quite a way from here but outside of the city the slavers likely would not have hesitated to use force to keep the group moving. Since he was headed there anyway he might as well keep an eye out for the sibling. "Very well," he said, hoping to finally reassure her. "More slavers are holed up in the mountains. I will try to find your brother there and let him know you are waiting for him in Ostwick. You can await his return in the Chantry."

"I already said I'm not going to the Chantry! I'm coming with you."

"And I already told you that is not going to happen," Fenris retorted more sharply. His patience was wearing thin. Distressing as it must be for her to have lost sight of her remaining family member, she had to back down from the madness that was dragging a child along on a hunt for slavers. "You have my word that I will see if I can find this Stef among the captives. Perhaps I can ensure he safely returns to the city as well by escorting him, but I will not take you along. It would only endanger both yourself, your brother and the rest of the people who have been captured. At best you would slow me down while I must move quickly to take the slavers by surprise. I understand how frightening this must have been but you are better off staying in Ostwick. Your brother will come to you."

"You don't even know what he looks like!" Again one small foot in rags stomped on the floor. To Fenris' dismay her eyes and face were becoming a lot more shiny in the light of his lantern – a sign that tears were rolling down her cheeks."You have to help me! Why did you free me if you don't want to help me now?"

"I consider not letting you get killed or recaptured helping. You simply appear to have no comprehension of the danger of what you're asking."

"I'll just follow you." Although those words were followed by the sniffing of a runny nose they sounded awfully determined.

Was this a child or a demon come to torment him? He could lose the little brat if she indeed decided to tail him, of that he had no doubt. The question was what would become of her if he did that. Would she give up, do the wise thing and seek shelter in the Chantry? Or would she attempt to find him again outside the city? Go so far as to search for her missing brother on her own? Everything about the girl warned that she would not arrive at the first conclusion. A young child wandering the cold wilderness of the mountains – a disaster waiting to happen if he had ever heard one, and that was after a decade in the company of Hawke. By the time she finally understood her foolishness it could already be too late. Was he to find Stef and tell him that his sister was alone somewhere, lost and almost guaranteed to die? If she refused to stay put a reunion between the siblings seemed even more unlikely than it already was. None of it was Fenris' responsibility, yet it did feel contradictory to free the children only to abandon them to their fate, like an uncaring master casting them from sight and concern.

Once more he pictured the imagined transport from Seheron, he and his sister holding on to their mother with chained hands. How many families had been torn apart by slavery?

How many more would he allow to be added to that?

"What is your name?"

"Rebekkah."

"Rebekkah," he repeated. "I'm Fenris. And how old are you?"

"Thirteen." The heartbeat of hesitation betrayed the lie before it had been spoken.

"You are as much thirteen as I am. Your real age."

He could see her mind work behind those stubborn eyes while she tried to decide whether to lie again. The strand of hair was returned to her mouth. "Almost ten," was eventually the reluctant answer.

Nine. The girl was nine years old. It was pure madness to take her with him. Absolute, undiluted insanity. He must have lost his mind from swimming in the cold polluted sea because despite the madness of it, it seemed the only option. Unless the child saw reason, which was unlikely. Rebekkah appeared immune to any form of logic. "You will slow me down."

"I won't!"

"Or get in my way."

"I'll be good, I promise!"

_If there truly is a Maker, let Him have mercy._ Fenris glanced away, purely to stall in hopes of a brilliant solution to announce itself. Predictably, none came. "You must promise to do what I tell you," he finally warned.

She nodded with conviction he did not trust in for a moment.

Rubbing the back of his head he let out a sigh. "Very well. You can go with me."

"Yes!" She skipped along when he pushed past her to the deck. "Thank you, Fenris!"

"There is still something I must do downstairs," he told her when he reached the stairs leading to the hold. "You should stay here. I will return shortly."

Yet when he descended she trailed after him, down to the cabins below deck and down again to the hold. Irritated Fenris halted and looked over his shoulder. "I just told you to wait for me."

There came no reply, nor did she move to obey. She simply stared up at him, chewing on that piece of filthy hair.

_So much for the promise to do what she is told. The number of ways I will come to regret this are beyond counting. _"Fine. Not a foot off the stairs." Uttering a quiet curse under his breath he placed the lantern next to her and took the last couple of steps into the hold. Rebekkah was still on the stairs when he looked back, seemingly content to watch him from there.

Fenris walked straight to the corpse of the last slaver he had killed, the man who had wielded a battle-axe. The weapon was still there, not far from the warrior's body, just out of reach. He picked it up and, ignoring the renewed jabs of pain in his injured arm, swung the heavy blade over his head before letting it swoop downward. Naturally it was a lot easier to break wood with sharp steel than a bare foot and the planks forming the floor of the hold cracked when the axe crashed into them. He had to narrow his eyes against the splinters flying through the air. He lifted the weapon again, put his weight behind another blow. It landed in a slightly different spot but that hardly mattered. More wood splintered and stinking sea water welled up through the cracks, like blood from a wound. He repeated the action several times over before he was satisfied with the level of destruction and water was steadily beginning to flow into the hold.

Dropping the axe he returned to Rebekkah and ushered her up the stairs, not bothering to pick up the lantern. "We should move on."

This time she did obey right away. He watched her clamper up the steps with her small feet, stained, filthy dress sticking to skinny legs. She stank like a privy but in his current state Fenris doubted that the scent currently emanating from him was any more pleasant. Both of them were in dire need of a bath and clean clothes. Both. He had counted on being alone for the foreseeable future, perhaps forever. And here he was, suddenly with a young child under his care. Somehow he had not recalled freedom being quite so unpredictable.


	22. Chapter 22

"You _do_ want me dead!"

"If that was what I wanted, I'm sure there would be a less roundabout way to go about it."

"Dragging me into the army camp of the vengeful prince who is eager to introduce me to his version of justice seems straightforward enough to me," Damian Hawke fumed, not caring to lower his voice in the face of the staring guards and visitors of Viscount's Keep as he and Aveline marched over the faded red carpet toward the stairs. "While your blasted Magebane is still suppressing my magic too!"

Aveline remained as infuriatingly stoic and unyielding as she had been when they had first seen the army settling on the mountain slopes outside Kirkwall's walls. "He just wants to talk. And intimidate us into surrendering, but you are not easily intimidated, right?"

"He shot an arrow at me!"

She climbed the next set of stairs on the left, where the Viscount's rooms were. "Part of the intimidation, not meant to kill. I don't believe he will break his word to allow us to come and leave unharmed."

"Sebastian vowed to reduce the entire city to rubble," Damian bit, barely believing this had to be spelled out. Aveline was hardly the most trusting person; surely she was just being purposefully obtuse here. "You can't be putting faith in his honor here. This is not the waffling priest we used to know. We now have Prince Sebastian, _with_ an army, and who's to say what he finds an acceptable course of action in his little war!"

"Hawke, breathe. You're not going in there alone. We'll bring an escort."

"Stop commanding me to do things!" he shouted, mowing his arms in frustration. "If I don't want to breathe, I don't bloody breathe! It's so very reassuring to have people with me who are as likely to stab me in the back as they are to offer protection. Such a relief. Shall I sharpen the knifes for you?"

"Fine, hold your breath till you're blue in the face." She knocked on the door of the Viscount's office, then pulled it open without waiting for an invitation to enter. "We're still going to talk with Sebastian. I want to hear what he has to say."

Seneschal – now Viscount – Bran looked up from the uncharacteristically messy scattering of letters on his desk and rose when he saw who was coming in. He appeared to have aged more in the past five years than he had over the six years Damian had had dealings with him in Kirkwall. The lines from frequent disdainful frowning had deepened and multiplied on his forehead; the grooves from his thin, pencil-sharp nose had reached the corners of his mouth and no longer required the drawing up of the upper lip in contempt to be visible. His fiery red hair had dulled and was messier than it had been at the height of the Qunari conflict and the stubble which had once been carefully restricted to his chin, had spread to his concave cheeks and neck. Yet when Bran righted himself and clasped his hands behind him, his back was still straight as a ruler and the upward tilt of his chin was as proud as ever.

"Guard-Captain Hendyr, I assume you're here with a plan for how to deal with the army we have at our doorstep, as well as an explanation for how they got this far this quickly." His chestnut-colored eyes went to Damian. "Ah, Champion Hawke. What an... unexpected surprise. I hope you've come in a more agreeable mood than when you last set foot in Viscount's Keep."

"I wouldn't count on– Ow!" Aveline's armored elbow unkindly connected with his ribs. Shooting what had to be the fiftieth angry look of that day at the ginger warrior, he reluctantly completed his sentence with: "... on anything less."

Pretending not to have noticed the unsubtle steering of Hawke's answer, Bran gave a firm nod. "Excellent."

Damian doubted the Viscount could have sounded any less excited if he tried.

"The approach of Starkhaven's forces was kept well-hidden," Aveline said. "I've readied the militia but this appears to be the largest army we have had to face so far. We'll have to hold emergency recruitment to increase our numbers but without trained mercenaries it's–"

"As I have repeatedly told you before, Guard-Captain," Bran interrupted her coolly, "there currently are no funds available to hire sell-swords. The city's coffers are practically empty. Without a significant increase in trade we simply have no way to recover from the rebellion and the strain created by the mage-Templar war. Starkhaven used to be our most substantial trading partner but that changed under the rule of Sebastian Vael. Their merchants have taken their business elsewhere and a great many from the smaller city-states in the Marches have followed suit out of fear for repercussions from Starkhaven; Ferelden has slumped back into chaos under the threat of this... Corypheus and the war, and a considerable number of our merchants has moved away from Kirkwall over the past few years. If you seek coin for the city's defense you stand a better chance petitioning Varric Tethras than me. Now, since you're the expert on matters of defense, I suggest you resume your outstanding work of keeping interlopers at bay."

"This interloper requests the Provisional Viscount's presence for a meeting." She handed Sebastian's letter to Bran, who skimmed through it with limited interest.

"I foresee a predictable conclusion to this talk. He wishes us to surrender, we refuse. I wrote a template message which would serve this exact purpose and save us all some time."

"That may be the case but Sebastian's reason for being here is more personal than it was for the ones who have attempted to take the city before. I would like to hear what he has to say. I think you could spare a moment so we can give the impression we would consider negotiating. Holding him off would give us more time to bolster our ranks and prepare."

"Personal," Bran repeated the word as if it carried a foul taste, gaze once more focusing on Hawke. " Of course it is, and of course it's no coincidence that this attack occurred so soon after your return. You attract about as much trouble as you solve, Champion."

"Your provincial Excellency–"

"_Provisional_ is the word you're looking for."

"Yeah, yeah." Damian swatted the correction away. "Rest assured that I would have been long gone had I not been kept here against my will. Let me walk away and I'll be out of your red hair."

"Vael requests that the Champion is present for the meeting as well; perhaps we should use you to convince him to walk away instead. It seems to me that would solve two of the city's problems. Since his presence here is personal..."

This was getting better by the minute. First Aveline was threatening to hand him over to Sebastian and now Bran was implying the exact same thing. Not that he had counted on any loyalty or support from the former seneschal. Even at the height of Damian's popularity, fame and wealth Bran had continued to act completely unimpressed by his presence. Yet on these two eager traitors he was supposed to rely when he marched into Sebastian's camp.

He was not given the opportunity to tell the Provisional Viscount where he could stow his threats. Aveline was faster. "Hawke has agreed to aid in Kirkwall's defense," she interjected. "I doubt Sebastian will be swayed to abandon the siege just in exchange for Hawke, and the return of the Champion should do wonders for the militia's morale. We are better off with him on our side."

_"Agreed" to aid. More like forced._ Biting his bottom lip with a sour face he managed to withhold the sarcastic sneer.

Bran uttered a noise that made it clear how much he cared for the opinion and morale of the plebs. "You are the Captain of the Guard and I will defer to your judgment in this matter, although I would like to remind you that your judgments have proven faulty in the past when it came to the Champion and his "associates". I trust these mistakes will not be repeated, considering what is at stake. When do you want this meeting to take place?"

Aveline turned to Damian. "How long till your magic returns?"

"How should I know?! I've never had the habit of taking a dose of poison with every meal. I have no clue how long it'll take for that crap to stop working."

"Any estimates?"

"I don't know. I don't feel anything yet and I doubt that will change any time soon." This better not be a ruse to gain insight into the time frame during which he would remain vulnerable and could easily be handed over to Sebastian as a present with a ribbon around his head. Given how slow his mana had been to replenish before his imprisonment, there would be ample time for such a plot. Reluctantly he hazarded a guess. "A day?"

"That's too long. I want the talk to be today."

* * *

Come sundown all arrangements had been made and their delegation, flanked by a dozen guards – purely symbolical of course; even fifty of them would have meant little against the might of Sebastian's army – left the city walls behind for a trip to the lion's den. On the edge of the camp they were greeted by a lieutenant, who announced he would lead them to His Highness the Prince. Camp preparations had proceeded quickly over the afternoon: they walked past orderly rows of tents, many of which had soldiers seated in front of them, chatting, playing cards or dice, or building a fire to keep warm in the coming evening. The salty tang of the sea had been driven from the air by the odor created by the bodies of hundreds of men and women after a march of several days through difficult terrain. Conversations halted when the small group passed, only to start anew shortly after with a different topic. There was nothing subtle about the stares and pointing fingers that followed them. The ground beneath their feet had already been trampled to mud along most of the route they took.

In what Damian estimated to be the center of the camp was another group of tents, separated from the outer ring by a sturdy-looking palisade which was still being worked on. The two guards at the entrance crossed their spears upon their approach to prevent them from entering. The lieutenant turned around. "Your weapons, please." Finding his request met with stony silence, he added: "They will be returned to you upon departure. We simply cannot allow you to be armed in His Highness' presence."

Still the silence wore on, putting everyone on edge. The Kirkwall Guard shifted their weight from one leg to the other, gauntleted hands fisting by their side as if they were itching to close their fingers around the weapons they were asked to hand over. Yet just when the Starkhaven lieutenant was beginning to look rather uncomfortable Bran deflated the mounting tension. "Maker's breath," he said, glancing left and right at the guards and finally at Aveline, "hand over your weapons. It's a little late for caution now. If this is a trap we will not be walking out of here alive regardless of what you hold in your hands."

All eyes went to the Guard-Captain, but she confirmed Bran's words with a nod and pulled her blade free. Wordlessly she gave it to one of the enemy's soldiers. Her shield remained on her back.

One by one the others followed her example. Reluctantly Damian relinquished his staff. It had taken an argument with Aveline, then one with Donnic and finally another one between Aveline and Donnic to get the weapon back. At the moment it was about as useful against danger as the guards accompanying them – smacking people on the head being the most impressive action he was capable of performing with it – but he was still not eager to part with the staff so soon after reclaiming it. His magic remained noticeably absent and leaving the last symbol of the power he could normally wield with the soldiers made him feel like he was going to walk into Sebastian's tent naked. Which was not as entertaining as it might sound.

Damian tucked at his cloak with pink and ring finger until it was hanging unevenly around his shoulder but was sure to hide his left arm from view. He was not sure what Sebastian would do if the web of scars was discovered but none of the potential scenarios he could think of were appealing.

With all weapons removed from the Kirkwall delegation they were allowed into the center ring of the camp. At the entrance of a large, burgundy tent in the exact same shade of red as the Starkhaven heraldry the group was stopped again – Bran, Aveline and Damian were the only ones who were permitted entry. In no rush to reunite with his old acquaintance, Damian let the others go first. The tent was high enough that he did not have to duck to get inside. Unless Sebastian had forgotten his bedroll when he packed for his invasion, this was not where he planned to sleep. A table and chairs were the only furnishings, leaving plenty of space to move around. Lanterns kept the looming darkness – more intense than out in the open air already – at bay, but they could not fully prevent that the red canvas unintentionally created a similar atmosphere to the one in the Blooming Rose.

Two people, both men, were already seated but got to their feet when the newcomers entered. The third had been standing, perhaps even pacing, and turned to watch the reluctant visitors.

Despite Aveline and Bran standing in front of him, Damian found Sebastian's piercing lyrium blue eyes on him straight away, as if the presence of the Provisional Viscount and Captain of the Guard from Kirkwall were irrelevant. It probably helped that Hawke was taller than both Bran and Aveline and could thus not get away with hiding behind them completely without making a fool of himself, but it was still disconcerting how the Prince's attention went to him and him alone, how their eyes met over the heads of the others in the tent so effortlessly as if those people might as well not have existed.

Sebastian looked the same as he had those few long, long eternals years ago when Damian had last seen him. When Sebastian had left with the threat of his eventual return with an army at his back. His eyes were still that bright, otherworldly blue under thick brown brows with a hint of red. His mouth had not lost its fullness, bordering on being plump, nor the elegant curves of the upper lip. Maybe the shadows cast by his cheekbones were a little darker and spread a little farther, the subtle beginning of wrinkles in his forehead no more a beginning but an inerasable fact, or maybe that was simply the lack of bright light in the tent, which also turned the man's skin a deeper shade of bronze than Damian remembered it to be. The chainmail armor with white plating and golden accents was as shiny and unblemished as on the day they had met, or rather, when Damian had witnessed an argument between Sebastian and Grand Cleric Elthina in the Chantry square. A thin golden band around his head and which helped keep his chestnut-colored hair back, was the one addition to the familiar apparel. While simple – or maybe because of it – this most modest possible version of a crown elevated Sebastian's already noble appearance to truly regal.

In short, he looked absolutely bloody perfect.

Yet beyond the superficial matters of appearances something about the prince _had_ changed. What had once burned bright and warm was now cold, a fire of kindness and compassion which had frozen over until even the embers had lost the memory of the flames. This was no longer the priest who had pledged and fully devoted himself to the Chantry, the Maker and Andraste, who had believed in the good of man and advocated compassion and mercy. He was not even the man wrestling with the choice whether to forsake his sacred vows to reclaim the Starkhaven throne over the corpses of those who would oppose him, as well as the innocents caught in between, or to turn away from his heritage and that of his family, allowing it to be forgotten under dust and blood to serve his god. The Sebastian who was standing here was a prince beyond a shadow of a doubt, heart no longer filled with doubts but hardened by determination. This was the man who had fired an arrow at the woman who had served as his mentor and so much more for years, to tear the bounty announcement for the mercenaries responsible for his family's death from her hand, nailing it to the Chanter's board and silencing her objections. Damian had caught a glimpse of that person then and now it was all who stood before him. Looking into those blue, blue eyes was seeing the desire, the _need_ for revenge, justice, born out of a sorrow one could only claim to know after losing everything you held dear. Damian had, or had come close to it, and therefore saw it, recognized it for what it was. Here was determination of the kind that had made him give everything for the mere chance of saving Fenris, the devotion which now had him itch to break away from this battle he wanted no part in, turn his back on former home, friends and allies to reunite with the elf, make sure he was safe and well and would remain that way. It was the unshakeable, bitter resolve others would be quick to brand as madness. But those were the ones who did not understand. Damian Hawke did.

It was utterly terrifying to realize that this was his enemy.

"Hawke. I did not expect you to accept my invitation," the prince said with his Starkhaven lilt.

"It was not the kind you refuse," Damian replied sourly with a look at the back of Aveline's head.

Sebastian took a while before speaking again, nodding to himself once as if he was contemplating what to say. "Where is Anders?"

"I don't know."

The way the shadows on Sebastian's face shifted promised righteous execution, vengeance. "You continue to protect the fanatic."

"I'm not protecting him. I simply don't know where he is. I last saw him in Minrathous about four years ago. Maybe he's still in Tevinter, maybe he's long dead. The magisters weren't very appreciative of his new rebellion either. Either way you can turn your little army around and march it in the opposite direction because he's not here." Those last three words were enunciated slowly, as if they could make Starkhaven's forces retreat if only they were spoken clearly enough.

"You allowed Anders to walk away from the destruction of the Chantry and the murder of dozens of innocents. Why would I put faith in the word of his closest accomplice? A years-old cold trail which may not even be true is of no worth to me."

"Then why did you even ask?" Damian snapped. "I no longer hold a shred of love or loyalty for Anders. Hunt him down, lock him up, kill him, I don't care. He's not my friend."

"You aided him with the bomb! For years you've known what kind of monster he is and used your influence to shield him from the Templars." Having the normally even-natured, calm Sebastian raise his voice made it all the more startling. "You had a hand in Elthina's death and were content to let her murderer walk free. You share as much blame for that foul deed as Anders."

"He tricked me!" The decision to let Anders talk him into gathering those damned materials and finally talk to the Grand Cleric to distract her would likely continue to haunt him till the end of his days, just like the decision to spare Anders' life in return for the part the healer had played in saving Carver's. "He lied and manipulated me to help him and believe me, I have regretted it from the moment I said yes. I wished no harm on Elthina. She seemed a perfectly nice old lady, even though she should have told Meredith to sit her crazy ass down a lot sooner. Anders used me and I was too bloody stupid to see it. But this is not the place where you can get your justice."

"On the contrary," the Prince said, calm again although his body was taut as the bow he could wield, "this is exactly where I need to be." Only now did he offer Bran and Aveline more than a fleeting glance. "The people of Kirkwall and all of the Free Marches deserve to be free of the corruption which has been allowed to fester in this city for generations. We can avoid further bloodshed. Surrender to Starkhaven and I will see this evil destroyed, root and all."

Bran treated Sebastian to one of those contemptuous stares he was so good at. "I fear I must politely refuse that generous offer. We would gladly welcome Starkhaven as our trading partner again but not at the price of our autonomy and independence. Kirkwall does not require your military assistance, Your Highness."

Sebastian motioned at one of the two men who had been keeping him company before Damian, Aveline and Bran arrived. "General."

General must know what the Prince expected of him, because he revealed a thin stack of parchment with a ribbon tied around it to keep the pages together. After undoing the knot he spread them out across the table. Continuing to hide behind Bran and Aveline seemed pretty pointless now, so Damian moved forward to take a look at the notes. The parchment looked frail and smudged in most cases and varied in size. But the signature at the bottom was identical on every page and jumped out.

_"The Band of Three."_

His head whipped up, eyes going to Sebastian in a silent question.

"They were secured from your mansion," was the simple answer.

"I thought stealing was considered a sin."

The Prince showed no sign of guilt or even discomfort. He did not bother to respond with a justification, instead silently pushed one of the notes forward. The fingers of his other hand drummed on the edge of the table, an act of restlessness Damian did not recognize from him.

He spent a few more seconds staring at Sebastian before he looked at the note the man had selected. _"It is well known that the Veil is thin in Kirkwall, small wonder given the suffering in the city. But we've discovered the magisters were deliberately thinning it even further. Beneath the city, demons can contact even normal men."_

He stopped reading, looked up at Sebastian again, mouth opening to say something, but before he had the chance another note was pushed forward. One bronze finger tapped on the second paragraph.

_"The mages of Kirkwall have a more troubled history than those in other Circles. A greater percentage of them do not survive the Harrowing, and a greater percentage turn to blood magic—almost double that of Starkhaven or Ostwick."_

Damian's eyes flickered up but the Prince had already selected a third note, his finger on the first paragraph. The other hand had stilled, and with the drumming ceased the entire tent had fallen silent. From afar noises from the rest of the army camp could still be heard but they were not loud enough to break the oppressive atmosphere. Damian was vaguely aware of Aveline and Bran leaning past his shoulders to read along.

_"The blood of countless slaves was spilled beneath the city in sacrifice. Whole buildings were built upon lakes of blood. The sewers have grooves where blood would flow, all leading down."_

The gruesome picture painted in those few sentences made his stomach turn, much like the first time he had read them. Even with everything he knew of the magisters it was difficult to grasp this level of... he was not sure what word could suit the horror of "lakes of blood". The blood of slaves. His mind conjured the image of Fenris, dead and broken in a pool of blood. The Nightmare's words welled up from the inner wound he was unable to seal. Trying to ignore the chilling fear stirring in his insides he focused on letter number four Sebastian pushed under his nose. The Prince's right index finger tapped on the second paragraph. Once. Twice.

_"The mason showed me a plan of the city, and my heart skipped a beat. There were patterns in the intersections, back alleys, and boulevards. Some magisters believed in the power of symbols or shapes. In the oldest parts of the city, one can make out the outlines of glyphs in the very streets! What manner of magic is this?"_

Sebastian straightened. "Kirkwall's corruption lies in the foundation of the city itself. A place where the streets breed and foster evil cannot be allowed to exist any longer. "

"You would destroy the city?" Aveline said with disbelief, more of a statement than a question.

"As long as these symbols remain intact the city will be under the influence of demons and maleficarum. Kirkwall has to be redesigned, the legacy of the magisters erased."

"This is preposterous!" The calm, condescending arrogance normally dominating Bran's tone had made way for genuine anger. "A handful of anonymous scribbles is no ground for an invasion. We are focusing on rebuilding our city, not tearing down even more of it."

"How many more innocents will perish if Kirkwall is left the way the magisters designed it? This has been going on for ages. I will put a stop to it."

"Yet you will have no issue with those same innocents dying at the hands of your army," Aveline retorted.

Sebastian's blue eyes were not weighed down by guilt when he stared at her. "I would prefer this to be without bloodshed. Kirkwall was once my home. It was the home of Elthina. Yet I cannot let you stand in the way of what is righteous. This has to be done, one way or the other. I will not make the mistake of standing idly by and wait for disaster and destruction to strike again."

"I thought this was about finding Anders," Damian remarked.

"This is about justice. Kirkwall created the conditions for the fanatic's attack and Elthina's death. I will not rest until both have been dealt with." The Prince turned to Bran. "I entreat your cooperation in this endeavor."

If there had been whispers of the former seneschal lacking a spine, Bran proved them false now. He righted himself even more, hands clasped behind his back, and said: "And I must politely refuse. Return to Starkhaven with your army while it is still intact."

Sebastian's lips thinned. "That is your final answer?"

"It most certainly is."

"Then we have nothing further to discuss."

For one nervous moment Damian feared that was the call for their execution, but neither General nor the name- and title-less companion made a move. Sebastian swept the letters from the Band of Three together into a stack again, purposefully not looking at his guests anymore. Hesitantly Damian, Aveline and Bran turned and left the tent.

Their escort was waiting for them, along with the lieutenant who had acted as their guide on the way here. Upon leaving the center ring of the camp everyone's weapons were returned to them and in the darkness they were led to the exit.

Nobody spoke and the silence persisted when they had retreated behind the city walls and began the walk back to Viscount's Keep. Damian's head felt strangely empty considering everything that had transpired. Maybe it was just the continued effect of the Magebane. He wanted to curse Sebastian, Aveline and Bran, Anders, the long-dead designers of Kirkwall, but that would not change anything. Would not bring him any closer to Fenris. For years he had taken on dangerous jobs and adventures, trusting that everything would turn out alright in the end. Now he knew better than to rely on his nonexistent luck and had no idea how he was going to make it out of an invasion of the most powerful city in the Free Marches, led by a prince with a very personal grudge directed at him.

He was almost grateful that Fenris had abandoned the city in time.

"Captain! Captain!"

The breathless voice calling out behind the group made them stop and turn, waiting for the owner to get closer. A woman in light armor came to a halt in front of them, hand pressing against her side. "Captain," she groaned again, "the sewer tunnels to the coast... we... we..."

"What is it?" Aveline could barely keep the urgency out of her voice.

"We went there, like you said, tried to find a good route to the army, but..." Her face twisted in pain. Only now did Damian realize she was not clutching her side because she had run too fast but that blood was seeping between her fingers. "The enemy soldiers arrived almost at the same time. They... ahh, they're trying to enter the city from below!"

"Oh," Damian was the first to break the stunned silence that followed this announcement, "we are thoroughly screwed."


	23. Chapter 23

"Fenris, I'm tired."

"We cannot stop yet."

Rebekkah sniffed. "But I'm tired. And cold."

"I seem to recall you saying something when you insisted I take you with me," Fenris remarked while traversing a particularly steep section of the mountain path they were travelling over. Dark clouds loomed overhead, waiting until they could release their heavy load and soak everything and everyone below. He hoped to cover some more ground before the rain forced them to seek shelter. "Something about how you would not slow me down."

Ostwick was no longer visible in the distance, despite their high position. Mountain slopes surrounded them on every side now, sometimes limiting their view to a couple of feet around them. They had left the city the previous day, later than Fenris had initially planned due to the more extensive preparations he had been forced to make now he had a young girl for company. Rebekkah had been a lot more quiet then, barely uttering a word during the journey, either from exhaustion, the emotional turmoil of losing her parents and being captured by slavers, concern for her brother, the promise not to be a bother still fresh on her mind, or because Fenris had refused to yield to her pleas and buy her a frilly dress with laces on the back. Instead he had insisted on more practical attire: pants, boots, a warm sweater, woolen hat and cape. Dressed like this she looked worlds apart from the girl he had first encountered on the ship, although the biggest transformation had to be credited to the thorough scrub she had undergone back at the inn. Her hair resembled less of a bird's nest now but hung listlessly around her face, moist at the tips because she kept putting a strand in her mouth. In daylight and with the layer of grime washed away she was paler than he had initially guessed. The cold air and wind had put a small, rosy blush on her cheeks, yet the healthiness of them was offset by the bags under her eyes. The mole on her right cheek stood out even more now, utterly defiant and resistant to soap and scrubbing brush.

"When are we going stop?"

"When it starts raining. Keep an eye out for shelter."

"But it's raining already."

Sure enough, he felt the first splatters land on his head. "We'll stop when it starts to rain hard."

"That's not what you just said."

"But it is what I meant. Keep walking."

Splat, splat, splat. For a short time he managed to ignore the fat drops falling from the lead-tinted sky at increasing frequency, and they continued on. One hit his nose, sliding down the bridge to cling to the tip until he wiped it away. Another quickly replaced it.

Splat splat splat. The staccato rhythm of rain splatters landing on and around him sped up, up, up, until it could not get any faster and morphed into the chaos of countless drops bursting free from the clouds at once. Within five steps he was starting to feel thoroughly soaked.

_Venhedis._ Fenris set off in a jog, checking over his shoulder if Rebekkah could keep up. He had still not seen a suitable shelter along the narrow path to escape the bad weather. Occasionally the rocks formed ridges which offered some cover but unless they would squeeze under one and press themselves against the mountain side, the protection from those was insufficient. Judged by the near-black, low-hanging clouds it would not stop raining any time soon. The shelter they chose was likely to serve as their place to sleep as well.

Fenris was beginning to second-guess the need to find cover from the rain since he was about as wet as he could get by now. Yet the long period of dementia had not eroded everything he had learned during a decade of running — or perhaps it was thanks to Hawke's insatiable curiosity when it came to caves. He stopped in his tracks next to a gap at knee height in the rocks on his left. Crouching down he peered through the opening. It was predictably dark, not much to see, but the space behind the crack seemed to open up into a cave.

He drew his sword. "Wait until I tell you it's safe to come in."

"But..."

He turned to give Rebekkah a stern look. "Wait."

On hands and knees he crawled inside. Before deciding to spend the night here he would prefer to be certain no giant spiders or other monstrosities lurked inside. Undead, demons, a dragon... none of Hawke's caverns had ever been empty.

Yet this one appeared to be. The ceiling was low, so low that he could not stand up straight. The cave was not deep either: after six steps he had reached the back wall. Blade in his left hand, he kept his other on the stone and made a round through the small space to ensure there was no passage leading deeper into the mountain. All he felt was solid stone. There was no scent of rot and decay either, nor of feces, anything that would indicate a predator enjoyed its meals here. A safe cave by all accounts.

"You can come in," he called out to Rebekkah.

She crawled into the cave straight away and came to stand close to him. Above the clattering of rain outside he could hear the clattering of teeth. While they had a dry hiding place, the small entrance made a campfire impossible. He would smoke them out if he built a fire here. Unless the skies would clear soon, which he did not count on, they were in for a damp, chilly night. Missing anything about the Tevinter Imperium was a transgression of the kind akin to bargaining with demons — or magisters, which came down to the same thing, really — but on days like these Fenris had to admit he would not mind a dryer, warmer climate.

He began to unpack and rolled out their bedrolls on the sandy ground. Placing his sword on his left, he sat down, knees drawn up so he could rest his arms on them. While Rebekkah settled next to him he pushed the wet cloak back to inspect his right arm. The makeshift bandages — torn from the sheets at the inn room back in Ostwick — still looked clean, with only a small stain having bled through the linen. Said stain had already turned a filthy, rusty brown — a promising sign. The cut had closed and not bled for the past day at least. He peeled at the knot, wrestling to untie it.

"Can I help?"

Fenris looked up and met Rebekkah's dark, large eyes. Again she was chewing on that abused strand of hair. How she could stand having all that hair in her mouth was beyond him, but perhaps his incomprehension was to be blamed on the fact that he possessed not a single memory of what it had been like to be a child himself. That knowledge belonged to Leto, and Leto was dead and gone. He remembered someone — Hawke? — saying that part of growing up was forgetting how it felt to be a child but Fenris doubted this forgetfulness was of the same level as complete amnesia. Others might no longer recall the exact feelings and inner workings they had experienced as children but they did have memories of their youth and thus knew with a certainty grounded in reality that they had started off as these small, innocent creatures. Fenris knew his own youth should be no exception to this, that he had undergone the gradual transition from child to adult like any other, but unlike them he could only base himself on assumptions and probability. It was unlikely he had come into the world the way he was now — long limbs, low voice, strong muscles — and the most plausible explanation remained that he did not in fact differ from other elves, or humans, or dwarves, where his origins were concerned. He was not about to give Danarius even more credit by believing the magister had created him from the Void.

"Very well." He pulled his hand back, allowing the young girl to have a go at removing the bandage.

Her small, nimble fingers fumbled with the tight knot for a while before it eventually came undone. When the linen strap had been removed he lifted and angled his arm to get a better look at the cut. A dark, reddish brown crust had formed along the gash, the skin surrounding it pink and sensitive. No sign of infection. The potion had done its job and helped the natural healing process on its way.

From his pack he took a clean bandage and a pinch of dried elfroot leaves. Their healing properties were not as effective as in the form of a poultice or potion but with the wound appearing less serious already it would suffice. Keeping the herbs in place, he let Rebekkah wind the fabric around his arm.

The girl did not immediately retreat after tying a new knot. With a sense of wonderment and curiosity he had gotten to know and tired of long ago she stared at the white lyrium scars.

"What are these?" One finger followed a spiraling curl on his bicep, sweeping out from under the bandage. "Did someone draw on you?"

"You could say that." If carving them out with a knife and infusing them with burning lyrium could be considered drawing.

He pushed her curious fingers away, scratched the dead line she had just touched. He had not felt her touch on the slightly raised scar that was the marking itself. The skin was numb, more alien and out of place than when the lyrium had still been alive. It itched, irritated. He was not certain whether something dead should be able to itch. Maybe it was actually the surrounding tissue, skin and muscle rejecting this unliving thing in their midst. Not for the first time he wished for a way to completely remove the now useless markings but that would only leave him with a different brand of useless scars. "They used to help me fight."

"Really? What did they do?"

"Magic, in a way." He disliked classifying his past abilities as magic, yet the term was the most straightforward to use and for her to comprehend. "It doesn't matter any longer. I am better off relying on my skill with a blade."

Rebekkah glanced around the dark cave. In a timid voice she asked: "Can you kill demons without magic too?"

"I can." He added: "I have killed many with nothing but a sword."

"Can you teach me how to fight?"

"No."

"Please! Why not?"

"My abilities were inflicted, not taught. I will not pass that on."

"But I want to fight like you!" Rebekkah wailed.

"It matters little what you want. I will not teach you what was drilled into me by the place and people you narrowly escaped from."

It had always been a conflicting point: his skill had its origin in the Imperium as much as the markings had. He had been honed for the purpose of killing, protecting his master. Like a sword was struck over and over again in the smithy's fires to harden the steel, sharpen the edge, his training in sword mastery had been a process devoted to the creation of what Danarius envisioned. Crafted, perfected as a weapon. He had been a tool, an extension of Danarius' will. It could not be separated from everything else, the ritual, the slavery, humiliation and lack of self.

_"Something good should come of them," _Aveline had once said in an attempt to get him to train the City Guard in Tevinter fighting techniques. While that might sound reasonable, Fenris could not bring himself to agree. Teaching his skills to others was sharing a piece of the Imperium, spreading it. Passing on Danarius' wants, ambitions, vision. The magister's legacy. Claiming they could be used for good was ignoring how wrong, how rotten to the core his experience with Tevinter was.

He would not share that experience, regardless of what other arguments for and against doing so could be thought of.

Naturally Rebekkah disagreed. "I have to fight when we find the other slavers! What if they hurt you and you can't fight anymore? Or if more slavers come later? Or... or... demons! And dragons! Stef saw a dragon once. It was really big and ate our neighbor's cow."

"How unfortunate." Fenris' fingers moved lower to scratch his forearm. "Should I fall in battle while you are present, you will either be taken captive or killed as well, whether you know how to fight or not. I do not have the time or means to train you and you are too young to have the strength to wield a sword. Leave the fighting to me. Once this is all done you will be free to find a proper teacher."

"I don't need a sword. I can use a knife! You used a knife to kill that last man. I could do that too. Please."

He considered this a fraction longer than before, but arming her would only make the slavers more likely to kill her, while the odds of a little girl coming to his aid in battle being useful seemed highly limited. "No."

"That's not fair!" The mole seemed to change shape as her cheeks puffed up in indignant anger and disappointment. That single spot reflected the child's personality perfectly: stubborn, cheeky, and refusing to be overlooked or erased. "Why do you have to be so mean?"

Not feeling obliged to explain or excuse his apparent meanness, Fenris decided to interpret that as a hypothetical question. "We will depart as early as possible tomorrow. You said you were tired so I suggest you eat and get some sleep."

Out of protest she got up and dragged her bedroll away from him.

* * *

That night Fenris was woken from his eternally light sleep well before dawn. It was pitch black and cold in the cave. If not for the fur bedroll, he would no longer have been able to feel his feet. One, two, three seconds passed during which he wondered if approaching danger — hunters? No, that could not be. Danarius was dead — had roused him, but then the cause revealed itself.

"Fenris?"

He pushed himself up a little from his stomach. It did not make him see Rebekkah any more clearly, even though he was looking directly at where the voice had come from. "Yes?"

"I can't sleep." Her voice sounded small and weepy.

Groggily Fenris ran a hand through his hair. "Why is that?"

A sob was his only answer.

He turned to sit upright. How did one comfort crying children? And how did one get them back to sleep? "What's wrong?"

He heard her sniff her runny nose. "Are we going to die?"

That was so far removed from the mule-headed determination she had displayed so far that he was at a loss for words at first. Although to be frank that probably would have been his state no matter what. His abilities to offer reassurance and inspire confidence were negligible and rusty at best. What did not help either was that there was an undeniable chance they would perish. Fenris did not consider himself to be in outright danger currently — far less compared to his years on the run — but taking on an operation of slavers on his own made guarantees for safety impossible as well. Was he supposed to lie? Was that how to assuage a child's fears? Trust was not easily given. Betraying the trust she had put in him by dismissing what was a genuine fear seemed wrong.

_"Promise me you won't die?"_

Irritated he pushed the echo away. "The possibility that things will go wrong exists, but I don't think we will die. I have survived graver dangers than these slavers."

Another sob. "Really?"

"I have faced certain death before and somehow made it through," he said. "What we are facing is not certain death."

There was a — rather moist — moment of silence during which Fenris wondered and hoped that he had actually managed to calm Rebekkah enough that she would return to her own bedroll, but then she moved and came to sit next to him. "We have to help Stef."

"I will do what I can to find him."

She squeezed closer to him. "I miss my mom and dad."

He did not know what to say to that. _"Just say something. Anything."_ They say death is only a journey? That had not gone over well last time.

In the end he settled for: "I know."

When she sniffed once more Fenris was fairly certain she was wiping her nose on the leather vest he was still wearing. Despite his distaste over this he could not bring himself to pull away. As the seconds slipped by and she showed no intention of moving he eventually put an arm around her narrow shoulders, patiently waiting for sleep to claim her.

* * *

**Note of the author: I hope you have all enjoyed pleasant holidays so far. I would like to wish you a happy new year in advance as well. My apologies that this chapter took so long. The past few weeks were pretty busy and the story events were not cooperating with me. I was hoping to move on to the slaver action in this chapter already but in the end decided to leave it for the next turn. I'll get to brood on it a little longer.**


	24. Chapter 24

**Note of the author: well, that took far too long again. I'm sorry about the delay. Real life got in the way of this one for a bit.**

* * *

Initial shock over Sebastian's swift attack made way for fevered preparations. There was no time to stand idle when Starkhaven's forces were close to forcing their way into the city. Bran did not need long to decide he had little to contribute in a fight to the death and took his leave, likely to barricade himself inside a secure building. Though maybe that assumption was not completely fair; Bran had displayed a much bolder sense of resistance in the face of Sebastian's invasion than Damian would have expected of him.

Aveline led the rest of the group that had visited the army camp down the first series of steps which descended to Lowtown and — eventually — the tunnels of Darktown at breakneck speed while issuing orders. Guards were sent in various directions to deliver messages, instructions, and warnings of what was to come.

"What is the plan exactly?" Damian asked once they reached the first set of — already empty and closed down — stalls of Lowtown's main market. "As far as there can be a plan when you've been outsmarted, that is."

"The Undercity mostly consists of narrow spaces. Sebastian won't have much use for his larger numbers. We can hold him back."

"Right. Or he just plows through us. I better not be part of that marvelous plan."

"Kirkwall's Champion has to be part of the city's defense, so yes, you are."

"I have no magic! Maybe you should make up your mind in advance: either poison me to render me helpless or leash me like a Qunari mage and point me at the enemy. Which reminds me, do you not have one of those nice, big collars they use handy?" he inquired venomously. "Sew my mouth shut while you're at it and you'll have me right the way you want to. Your very own pet mage, forced to attack on command."

"Don't give me any ideas," Aveline grumbled. "I could do with some quiet from you right now. We have already had this discussion. Your presence will boost the militia's morale at the very least. I will not put you on the front lines while your magic still needs to recover."

"You've already bullied me into cooperating, you mean." Damian glared in passing at the faded wooden man dangling upside down from his bound ankles by the Hanged Man. He could relate very well to how that uncomfortable position must feel. "I thought it had been agreed by you lot that I am a disgraced Champion now, or a fallen one — whichever way you might want to put it. You've made that all too clear for your guards to see in that cell, chaining, poisoning and altogether humiliating me, and after that I have to inspire those same people in battle? It's a very special logic you are operating on. The crazy kind."

"Have some respect," Donnic's scolding voice sounded from behind. "You're in no position to be snapping at the Guard-Captain."

"Go chew on your sideburns," Damian retorted. "I wasn't addressing you." To Aveline he continued: "So I am to stand there and look pretty? That doesn't sound very inspiring. You might as well lug that statue of me by the docks to the battle. I bet everyone will feel strengthened just looking at my flaming sword. We need magic against Sebastian, not a mascot."

"You're right. In part, at least." She looked at Donnic. "Go to the Alienage to get Merrill. Tell her we could use her help."

Donnic looked like he was not thrilled with the prospect of fetching another blood mage but in the presence of others he did not voice any objections to his wife's command. A confirmatory bow of the head and he was off in the opposite direction they were heading in.

Aveline, Hawke and the seven remaining guards who had not been sent away with orders yet hurried on through the city's quiet streets. Most of Kirkwall's citizens had retreated to the — either relative or plain imagined — safety of their homes early in face of the siege. News of the arrival of Starkhaven's forces must have spread at lightning speed and brought the day to a premature end, else more workers would have been making their way to a tavern of choice for a drink after their shift. Tomorrow they would probably have to return to work, try to keep their lives going in spite of the threat lying in wait outside the city walls. Or Sebastian's army would break through the defense this very night and Kirkwall would awake under a new ruler.

Donnic and Merrill caught up to them shortly before the group climbed down a pothole at the docks to enter Darktown, so with the mighty force of eleven they ran through the bowels of Kirkwall — a very apt metaphor for the place. Whoever had dubbed the sprawling system of tunnels hidden beneath the city "Darktown" had been right on the mark. In comparison the stinking docks were an excellent place for a romantic stroll and Gamlen's hovel could pass for a mansion. Damian had never been able to decide what was worse about it: the foul mush their boots were slipping on and of which you were better off not knowing the exact components of; the greenish mist billowing in every corner, which bit in your eyes, nestled in every fiber of your clothes and pores of your skin so you reeked of the sewer tunnels even days after exiting them; or the people — the lost, the hopeless, the rejected and the condemned, the criminals and the beggars watching passersby with the hollow eyes of those who had given up on every chance of a better life. To think that with a few different turns in life he could have ended up with this maze of misery as his home. If the choice had been between turning himself in to the Templars and fleeing into the obscurity of the Undercity, he just might have conformed himself to Circle life.

As they progressed through the tunnels under Aveline's lead, Damian gradually dropped to the back of the group, allowing the guards to pass him. No need to be among the first to charge in once they encountered opposition. Only Brennan and Donnic refused to leave their position as the very last of the group and insisted on keeping pace behind him. Blasted guard dogs.

Merrill came up beside him, her step light and sprightly even as they were heading to fight off an invasion. "Hello Hawke."

"Evening, Merrill."

"It's nice to see you back in Kirkwall. I've missed you," she said with her usual open sincerity. "I'm glad Aveline decided to release you."

"Yes, I am elated that I got dragged up from the dungeons to be shoved into a fight for my life while I can't use magic." He paused to suck in a couple of deep breaths. Sitting in a cell had done his stamina no favors. "My joy knows no bounds."

Of course the elf was oblivious to the sarcasm in his words."Yes, it must be a relief to be out of a dark cell. Although it's still dark down here too. And so filthy. I wish I had worn shoes with soles now. Donnic did not mention we were going into the tunnels."

"Sebastian and his army haven't sprouted righteous wings yet, so they have to claw their way up with the rats and we get to meet them down here."

He was beginning to recognize the route, a combination of tunnels and caves, they were taking. This was the path Anders had used to smuggle mages out of Kirkwall. The exit was located on the Wounded Coast, not far from the city. Sebastian had been present when they had followed the tunnels in the direction of the Gallows to investigate the "Tranquil Solution" plot Anders had caught wind of, a plan to turn every mage in the Circle Tranquil. The impeccable Sebastian in his shining white armor had formed such a stark contrast with every unsavory characteristic of Darktown that it had been almost comical to see him wade through the tunnels alongside them. Now the prince was using what he had learned about Kirkwall's underworld against them, that image lost a lot of its humor in hindsight.

It took a few strides before Merrill said anything in return. Damian would have liked to assume because she needed to gather her breath but she did not look like she had the slightest trouble keeping up. "I did not think Sebastian would really attack us. I mean... he always tried so hard to be friendly. He was sad and angry when he said he was going to destroy Kirkwall."

"He put a bounty on my and Anders' head straight away and pushed the Chantry to take action against us," Damian reminded her. "To him that probably included dealing with Kirkwall. Self-righteous prick. I'd love to send a fireball up his ass."

She gave a somber shake of her head. "I really thought he didn't mean it."

Damian offered no reply. While he had to admit that part of him had not believed Sebastian to be capable of attacking Kirkwall for the actions of a few, whether or not he had seen it coming was ultimately meaningless. He was up to his ankles in shit — literally — either way. Piling disillusions about old friendships on top of that would serve nothing.

When Damian's silence continued, Merrill went on to innocently poke at his sore spot like only Merrill could: "It's a shame that you missed Fenris. I'm sure you would have liked seeing him be himself again. You know, cross and growly... Funny how that's the kind of thing you want back again once it's gone."

"You've seen him?" With the current developments he felt torn between continuing to lament Fenris' timely departure and considering it a blessing in disguise. At least Fenris was not trapped in a city under siege and forced to fight an old friend. He had gotten along pretty well with Sebastian.

_"Fenris is going to die."_ At least it would not be down in Kirkwall's sewers. Small comfort.

"Oh yes, when we went to the— I think people are fighting there."

He would hardly have missed that without her pointing it out. The sounds of battle rolled forward to greet them like a great wave; the smell of blood already in the air — not enough yet to overpower the regular assault on the senses that was the combination of scents in Darktown but definitely noticeable. By the looks of it the Starkhaven forces were on a slow but steady push forward; their numbers filled the tunnel as far as Damian could see from his position at the top of the short set of stairs where Aveline had halted. While she might have been correct about the narrow space limiting the use of the larger army it still meant there were an awful lot of enemies waiting for a chance to join the fray.

"Shields!" Aveline's warning was repeated by the guards behind her, passing it on to the back. In accordance with the single word every guard raised their shield above their head.

Before Damian could remind her that he had no such thing the first arrows struck the surface above him. They had gotten into range of the archers. Looking back he found Donnic's shield above his head, providing cover for the both of them. The guardsman rather purposefully avoided meeting his eyes.

"Hawke," Aveline addressed him, "you stay up here and rally the troops."

"What am I supposed to..."

"For Kirkwall!" On the Guard-Captain's rallying cry the guards plunged into the fray to relieve those on the frontlines.

"...say?" With a poorly suppressed groan he turned to Merrill, the only one who had stayed beside him. "Do you still know how to cast arcane shields?"

She nodded emphatically. "Don't worry, I'll keep one up for you!"

True to her word she did just that, arms and staff describing an elegant pattern in the air before two iridescent bubbles blinked into life, one around Hawke, the other enveloping herself. Not a moment too soon — a volley of arrows struck the magical barrier immediately. Up here they made for a tempting target.

Merrill repaid the attack by sending a bolt of lightning from her staff into enemy ranks. At least four soldiers collapsed because the current made their muscles cramp and their legs gave out. Damian could feel the static charge of the spell in the hairs of his beard.

Once more he turned his attention inward, searched for that spark of magic, a sign that the poison was beginning to wear off. The fingers of his right hand ran over the grooves in his staff but no matter how hard he tried to focus, the wood simply felt lifeless. He had nothing in him to awake the power in the staff and put it to use. He might as well be holding a branch he had broken off a tree. Absolutely, completely and utterly useless. How was he supposed to inspire courage in the poor sods who were trying their best not to get hacked to pieces in this state? This had to be the least inspirational he had ever felt in his life.

But just standing around was not much of an option either.

Taking a deep, chokedamp-filled breath, he raised his voice. "And here we go again. People showing up uninvited, what a surprise! Let's show them that if the Arishok and his horde of Qunari couldn't take Kirkwall, Prince Sebastian and his little army don't stand a chance!" He lifted his staff in the air and signaled Merrill to cast another spell. Maybe he could borrow a little credit for her attack. It was not like the militia had nothing better to do than look at what he was doing. "Now let's see blood!"

Shouts of agreement resounded from the battleground. More lightning struck the enemy, adding a waft of charred hair and meat to the tunnel's aroma, but Starkhaven's forces showed no sign of discouragement. On the contrary, a second set of arrows was fired in the direction of the two mages and crashed against the shields.

The battle wore on, neither side inclined to surrender. Reinforcements Aveline had sent for arrived and allowed more of the exerted or injured soldiers a momentary retreat. Due to the lack of mages in Sebastian's army — likely because of the fall of Starkhaven's Circle — Merrill's spells wreaked havoc. The stench grew more intense, the air thick with the smell of blood. Chokedamp swirled around their legs, seething and restless like the people fighting in it. Damian could feel the fumes at the back of his throat, the coating they left on his tongue as he shouted himself hoarse with rallying cries, obscenities and insults.

They were getting pushed back. Despite everything the invading force was slowly progressing. Inch by inch, step by step, Damian saw Starkhaven's colors get closer to the stairs. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was helpless, useless without magic. Vaguely, as if from far away he sensed the itch of the forbidden option, the subtle pull of what he had not dared to try. It ebbed and flowed with the tide of battle, kept in the background by the chaos of the fighting but still present. Ignored, resisted, but not quite forgotten.

"Do you think they're tiring?" Merrill asked in a faint voice as she flung a mass of rock over the heads of those in front of them. She wobbled on her feet before regaining her balance. "I'm tiring."

"We still got company, I'm afraid. Do you need—"

As if to confirm his statement, Starkhaven archers shot yet another batch of arrows their way. Only this time they did not strike the arcane shield to clatter harmlessly to the ground. Or rather, not all of them did. The light blue and lilac bubble disappeared without warning, allowing one arrow unhindered passage. Damian's attempt at ducking came too late, he felt the arrow whizz past his cheek and leave a burning trail.

The world spun and got turned inside out. More out of surprise than serious injury he staggered backwards and dropped to one knee, bringing a hand to his left ear. Something wet trickled down his cheek and neck, moistened his fingers. His staff burst to life in his hand. From still and lifeless it went to a well of potential, brimming to the point of overflowing. The roaring sounds of battle quieted to a buzz while what had previously been near-indiscernible rose to a thunder. It was as if a storm which had been raging around him had moved inside his head.

He did not have to be this defenseless, toothless joke, fading symbol of past might. _"Do you think you mattered, Hawke?"_

The hot promise of unopposed, unmatched power sang in his blood, was mourned with each drop left spilled and wasted.

He did not need access to his mana to turn the tide of this battle. All he needed was blood, and there was no lack of blood during a fight. He did not even have to use his own. He could burn Sebastian's forces to the Void, warp their minds so they butchered their own comrades, flatten this entire damn tunnel and walk away. Go find Fenris.

_"Fenris is going to die."_

He had used it before, what harm would one more time do? What difference would it make? The power coerced, pleaded, urged, mocked, seduced, threatened, pulled, lured, demanded. Was he going to allow himself to be humiliated, injured, killed because he was trying to uphold what was already lost? Let Fenris die for forsaken principles, out of neglect like with his family? He should...

"Hawke, I'm so sorry!" Merrill's voice fractured the spiral of his thoughts, pulling them to a stop. "Are you hurt? I couldn't keep up the spell anymore."

Damian was not sure when she had crouched down beside him. Her face was hazy, little more than the pattern of the vallaslin and a pair of large, green eyes. At first he blamed the blurriness of vision on his own disorientation but then he realized he was kneeling in the clouds of chokedamp escaping through the poorly sealed grate of a vent he had fallen against. He had been staring ahead in the toxic fumes with watering eyes and not even noticed. Though now that he had, a fit of coughing immediately announced itself.

"Hawke?" Merrill tried again. "Are you alright? I can switch to—"

"No," he wheezed in between coughs, blinking against the tears in his stinging eyes. "I mean... I'm fine. Just a little... a little dazed. You don't have to use it."

"Are you sure? It's no problem, you know."

"Yeah, no. Best... best not use it here. Too many people around." He latched on to that grain of reason. It felt more like an excuse than a case of flawless rationalization but right now it was the best — the only — reason he could condensate into words. Something tangible that made sense. The sudden awakening of blood magic's call frightened him. Years had passed since he had last used it, years he had spent burying it, and still he could barely control it. One cut and it was back on the surface.

He looked at his right hand, still holding the staff even though his knuckles were pressing against the rusty grate. The power locked within the magical weapon practically hummed under the skin of his palm. In that single moment of getting hit by that arrow he had become able to feel it again, clear as day. Like a bomb had gone off in his hand.

A bomb... Damian stared at his hand, then at the grate he was leaning on. It was caked in filth, most of the holes completely plugged by it. Only a few small cracks remained through which chokedamp could escape.

He got an idea, or actually, two.

"Merrill, help me with this." He tried to dig the crooked fingers of his left hand through the holes and hook them around the metal but that was not easy with the limited space and stiff joints in his fingers. After a moment of consideration he put his staff aside and used both hands.

"What are we doing?" Even though she asked, she did not wait for him to answer before joining in the attempt and squeezed her much more slender fingers through the grate.

"Lifting this... hngh, this thing up." Damian dug in his heels and pulled with all his might. Feeling his grip slipping, he readjusted and tried again. He really did not want to pause and consider what he was rutting around in. He could only hope that the grate had not been sealed somehow and could actually come loose.

The first few pulls seemed to have no effect whatsoever but then the metal began to gain some wiggle room. A couple more tries and it finally surrendered its position and could be lifted. As soon as the barrier was removed a thick column of chokedamp rose from the vent and spread through the tunnel.

"Alright." Damian relaxed his hold on the heavy grate. Dropping it, he grabbed his staff and backed away to survey the battle. The new supply of chokedamp already neared the stairs, shrouding everything in its greenish haze. Sebastian's forces were on the verge of reaching the stairs. Searchingly he scanned his surroundings. "Is there another one of those vents?"

They spotted one on the other side, equally caked in years' worth of filth. Together they crouched down again and started yanking at the grate to get it to come off.

"Hawke! Hawke, have you lost your mind?" Aveline's incensed face, sweaty and flushed from the fighting but otherwise unharmed, appeared through the fumes to stare at him. "What do you think you're doing?"

Finished with dragging the grate off the vent, Damian straightened. ""Yes, probably" to the first and "I'm giving us a break" to the second."

She covered her mouth with a fist and coughed. "By suffocating everyone?"

"That wasn't really my intention but if you want everybody to stay in the middle of the chokedamp instead of having them retreat, that's your call. Now, I hope it will take a while before the fumes have dissipated enough for the army to press on again so we have some time. I'll be right back."

"Time for... Hawke! Hawke, stop!"

He simply ignored her calls to halt and bolted off in the direction they had come from. Less easy to dismiss were the footsteps he heard going after him. Footsteps which sounded too heavy to belong to Merrill.

A hasty look over his shoulder confirmed that it was in fact Brennan who chased after him. He did not slow his pace, at least not straight away. The intensive fighting had worn the guardswoman down and she struggled to catch up to him. He was in no rush to get tackled and interrogated about turning his back on the battle.

Sadly his destination was in a another part of Darktown and it did not take very long until he was out of breath himself. And because Brennan's endurance was still better than Hawke's, she was closing in. Still not wanting to be knocked on his ass for the explanation that would no doubt be demanded, Damian pressed himself against a wall after turning around a series of corners along the narrow path. Staff at the ready, he waited.

In her rush to get him in sight again Brennan had foregone caution and failed to pay attention to her surroundings. Damian's well-timed stab between the legs had her trip and crashing down.

"No need to chase me," he told her. "Either bugger off or just come with me."

She moved to get to her knees and raise her drawn weapon but Hawke was faster and put his foot on the blade. "I'm no deserter, Champion," Brennan spat. "I won't flee from battle like a coward."

"Good thing I'm not doing that then. Well, not this time." Damian lifted his foot, allowing her to stand up with weapon in hand. "We're going back soon enough, don't you worry."

"Then what's this stunt for? Where are we going?"

He set off in a jog. "Getting bombs."

_If Sebastian can take advantage of his knowledge about the city, so can I._

* * *

Tom Wise's stall was still in its old spot near one of the entrances to Darktown. There was no sign of the elven poison and bomb crafter, however, and if the unattended wares were anything to go by he had abandoned them in a hurry. True to his name, he likely had cleared out as soon as the first guards had descended into the tunnels and only grabbed what he could carry. If the rest of the Undercity's residents had not shared that attitude towards law enforcement and made a run for it too, the stall would have been looted bare by now. Between the Carta and the Coterie demand for deathly tools was high. As it was, the crates were still stacked into the niche which served as Tom's shop. Damian picked up the one on top and inspected its contents. Vials filled with liquids in various colors, some bright, others dark or clear as water. Poisons. Not useful. He moved on to the next crate.

He had rarely made use of Tom's services in the past, had only ever ordered a few poisons for Isabela and a batch of smoke bombs for Varric. Carrying around explosive devices which might go off at the wrong moment when he was perfectly capable of conjuring deathly fireballs himself had never seemed worth the risk. No longer being able to hurl fireballs at will put matters in a different perspective but thanks to his previous lack of interest he had no clue which bombs he needed. Tom Wise had marked the crates and some of the bombs but whatever system he employed to identify his wares, it did not use words. The seemingly random scribbles were not very enlightening.

In the end Damian decided to do the most logical and absolutely-not-terribly dangerous thing: bring as many as he could. He stuffed bombs in one crate until none would fit anymore without rolling out.

"Here." He pushed the burden into Brennan's arms. "Don't drop it. I doubt I have to explain why."

While filling a second crate he shot a longing look at the exit. With Brennan having her hands full it should be easy to make a run for it and get out of here, but where was he supposed to run to with a siege going on? Plus he was not exactly in great shape at the moment. His cheek and especially his ear burned vigorously. Blood continued to leak down his neck and soaked his collar. He hoped his ear was still intact. It had felt that way when he touched it, but still... His left side was getting pretty battered at this rate.

He hoisted the crate up. No time for running yet. Not before he had repaid whoever had shot an arrow at him.

They made their way back to the scene of battle as fast as they could without blowing themselves up. Just in time, it seemed. The heavy clouds of chokedamp had begun to spread, visibility slowly improving to the point that their opponents could be seen on the other end of the tunnel to where they had retreated. In the swirling fog one could occasionally catch glimpses of the bodies of the dead or grievously wounded which had been left in the temporary retreat. The raised shields, bows held at the ready and the arrows on the ground disproved the idea that the break in fighting had been a peaceful one. It made for a strange, ominous sight, these two armies — although army was a generous term for Kirkwall's militia — eyeing one another over the fallen, waiting for the air to clear enough that the fighting could be resumed. Shrouded in chokedamp, the scene looked like it belonged in a dream. A very bad one.

Hawke's and Brennan's return was met with excited and confused murmurs. Most had likely assumed that the Champion had left them to their fate. Aveline pushed through the throng, Donnic on her heels. She opened her mouth for a scolding, noticed the crates and closed it again. Her brows furrowed.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"We're not under the city anymore. This is the Wounded Coast " Damian placed the crate on the floor. "I have no idea if all of these combined are strong enough but the way I see it, we need this tunnel sealed. Either we accomplish that, or we get to blow up part of Sebastian's army."

"Or ourselves..." After a moment she heaved a monumental sigh. "Maker's breath. Alright, let's do it and hope we won't make the entire tunnel collapse on us. We have managed to pull our injured back already."

By instructions of the Captain of the Guard bombs were handed out to those who were deemed capable of throwing far enough. The best result would be achieved if the bombs went off simultaneously but Starkhaven's archers made coordinating this difficult. Those who left the cover of a shield long enough often had to pay for that mistake with more than a painful ear. Nevertheless they slowly managed to line up everybody who held an explosive gift for the enemy.

Waiting for the sign, Damian peered into the mist. He was protected by Merrill's shield again, her mana having recovered just enough to maintain it. He thought he saw a glimmer of white amidst the red uniforms of Starkhaven's forces. Sebastian must have ridden to the Wounded Coast to join them. The bomb was light and cold in his hand, a simple glass ball filled with alchemical components and a roll of paper stuck in it to serve as a fuse. For something safer one would have to look outside of Darktown...

At Aveline's command the primitive fuses were lit, the bombs aimed. A moment of perfect silence on both sides, only disturbed by the pitiable groans and whimpers of the dying. On Starkhaven's side archers knocked their arrows and waited for their own signal to fire.

Unfortunately for them Kirkwall was the first to strike this time around. One word from the Aveline and the small bombs were hurled across the tunnel. The explosion that followed made the ground and walls shake, the shockwave strong enough to have them stagger on their feet. Even when the deafening bang had died down, its echo carried on in the rumbling of stone cracking, shifting, and finally collapsing. Pieces of rock rained down from the ceiling, more and more, faster and faster, until it was impossible to see anything through the wall of smoke, chokedamp, dust and solid stone. Damian could swear that the white figure running away was the last thing he saw before the rest of the ceiling came down and sealed off the exit.


End file.
